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# 


Hon. D. \V. Higgins 


X3he 

MYSTIC SPRING 



And Other Tales of 
Western Life 


...By... 

Hon. D. W. HIGGINS 



Fully Illustrated 
New and Revised Edition 




BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO» 
835 BROADWAY, NEW YORK 



library of CONGRESS 
Two CoDiM Received 


UEC 19 i908 



Copyright, 1908, 

BY 

D. W. HIGGINS 


All Rights Reserved 


Affectionately inscribed to my daughters, 
Elizabeth Raymur and Maud Erve Corsan. 



PREFACE. 


In 1856, being then very young, I went to reside in 
California, where I became interested in the Morning 
Call newspaper as part proprietor and editor. In 1858, 
disposing of my interest, I joined in a mad rush to 
the British possessions on the Pacific in search of gold. 
The country now known as British Columbia was 
then named New Caledonia. It was a wild and track- 
less section, inhabited by numerous tribes of savage 
red men, who were controlled and held in check with 
difficulty by the wise policy of the Hudson’s Bay Co., 
the nominal rulers. 

Through all the commercial, political and social 
changes incidental to pioneer life during the last forty- 
six years I have resided on the British Pacific Coast. 
My opportunities for collecting material for this vol- 
ume have been excellent, for I have had a strangely 
adventurous and variant career. I have prospected, 
mined and traded; owned a theatre and managed 
theatrical companies; filled every position in a news- 
paper office from “devil” to editor and proprietor j 
and have been a politician and legislator, rounding off 
my public career by resignation after presiding as 
Speaker for nine years over the British Columbia 
Legislature. 

During the half century that I was in active life I 
made copious notes of events as they transpired. I 
carefully studied the peculiarities of speech, the habits 
and mode of life, and the frailties as well as the virtues 
of the early gold-seekers on the Pacific Coast, and 
now venture to lay some of the most startling inci- 
dents that came to my knowledge before the reading 
public for their information and verdict. 


D. W. H. 


PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 


The unexpected favor with which the First Edition 
of “The Mystic Spring” was received and the further 
fact that the work has been out of print for many 
months, have induced me to yield to a general demand 
for a Second Edition. At this moment public atten- 
tion in the United States and Europe is directed to 
the Western country and information concerning that 
interesting land is eagerly sought by all classes. The 
days of which the stories treat are a long way back; 
but I hope it will be found that the tales, which are 
told in the simple but expressive language in use at 
that time on the Pacific Coast, will prove as acceptable 
to American and British readers as they have to the 
Canadian public. Care has been taken in the prepara- 
tion of this edition to vary a few of the situations and 
change the names of certain of the actors, to avoid 
giving pain to their descendants ; but in other respects 
the stories appear as originally written. 

With these few words I respectfully lay the book 
before American and British readers. 

D. W. H. 

Victoria, B. C., August ist, 1908. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The Mystic Spring i 

A Child That Fbund Its Father H 

Chasing the Golden Butterfly 28 

“Seeing the Elephant” 43 

A Fugitive From Justice 60 

Sweet Marie 77 

My First Christmas Dinner in Victoria 94 

The Fight for the Standard m 

Lord Putnam’s Nephew 122 

An Ill-fated Family 128 

Into the Depths 139 

The Saint and the Sinner 151 

Happy Tom 163 

The Duel 173 

A Plot That Failed 185 

The Premier Baron I93 

England’s Greatest Novelist 205 

The Great Capsicum Plot 214 

The Golden Wedding 226 

Into the Jaws of Death 242 

“S. P. Moody, All Lost” 255 

The Haunted Man 258 


ii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Deviled Sausages 272 

Jem McLaughlin’s Regeneration 282 

The Mayoral Dinner 291 

The Strange Story of James Moore, Druggist 302 


THE MYSTIC SPRING, AND OTHER TALES 
OF WESTERN LIFE. 


THE MYSTIC SPRING. 

Queen. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes. 

Laertes. Drown’d! O, where? 

Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a brook, 
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; 
There with fantastic garlands did she come. 

Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies and long purples, 
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name. 

But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them : 
There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds 
Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke ; 

When down her weedy trophies and herself 

Fell in the weeping brook. — Hamlet. 

Many, many years ago, when Victoria was called 
Camoosun and the first settlers built their dwellings 
and warehouses behind tall palisades and mounted 
gxms on bastions; when the aboriginal tribes were 
turbulent and not always amenable to the soothing 
influence of ship’s bread and treacle; when painted 
savages, armed and fierce, swarmed in thousands in 
and about the dense forests and sweet meadow-lands 
that surrounded the stockade; when Fort Street be- 
gan in a swamp and goose pasture at Blanchard Street 
and ended abruptly at the fort gate, before which a 
big Indian patrolled as sentry, and Yates and the 
other pretty streets that now add to the convenience 
of the people and the beauty of the town were but 


*2 


The Mystic Spring^ 


trails that wound through a thick forest; when you, 
gentle reader, had not as yet left the ethereal blue 
to take up your sphere of action on the earth’s surface 
— I say that many, many years ago there existed on 
the shores of Cadboro Bay a small but valiant tribe 
of Indians. It was at Cadboro that Sir James Doug- 
las first landed on Vancouver Island from the brig 
Cadboro, a staunch Sunderland-built vessel of live oak, 
the property of the Hudson’s Bay Company. He was 
well received by the natives, and having named the 
bay Cadboro (then spelt with its long termination, 
Cadborough) after the brig, he walked through a 
forest of oak, pine and spruce till he came in sight of 
Camoosun harbor. Here he planted the British flag, 
after naming the place Victoria, and reared dwellings 
and warehouses and palisades, and mounted g^ns for 
the protection of the infant settlement from a native 
foray. Victoria must have been an ideal place to live 
in at that time. There were no customs houses nor 
duties; neither taxes nor newspapers; no sidewalks 
and no streets ; no policemen nor lawyers, nor trustees 
to vote away the civic revenue without check; and 
only one doctor; no mayor and aldermen, no poli- 
ticians, no drainage, no water supply except from 
wells, and no typhoid; when everything that a fellow 
ate or drank or wore was not said to be infected with 
the germs of disease, and when the only obstacles to 
a long life were a too free use of Hudson’s Bay rum, 
or a sly bullet from a Siwash musket. 

When the party landed at Cadboro they were struck 
with the beauty of the beach of white sand and the 
oval shape of the bay, which was as faultless in its 
lines as if it had been laid out by surveyors. Great 
trees raised their heads on every side and gigantic 
oaks almost brushed the clouds with their vernal 
crowns. A thousand years old if a day, alas! they 
have long since been converted into firewood at two 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 


5 


or three dollars per cord, instead of having been 
allowed to stand as objects of majestic grandeur and 
forest pride forever. Sir James was a keen admirer 
and student of Nature, and when from the deck of his 
vessel he gazed on the picturesque scene before him 
his senses must have been captivated and charmed. 
As he stepped ashore and prepared to follow the In- 
dian trail that led to Camoosun his attention was 
arrested by a huge maple tree, which, with spreading 
branches rich with bright green foliage, stood directly 
in his path. No historian has recorded the fact; but 
I feel sure Sir James questioned the chiefs as to this} 
magnificent monarch of the forest, and applauded 
their forbearance in having preserved it from de- 
struction, for it was very old, although it showed no 
signs of decay. At the foot of the tree, so near that 
some of the roots extended into the water, was a 
spring as clear as crystal. It was fed by a rill that 
trickled from the side of the hill which overlooks Cad- 
boro Bay, and its waters possessed the rare charac- 
teristic of being as cold as ice in summer as well as 
in winter. No matter how warm the weather the 
waters of the spring that nestled by the great maple 
tree were as cool as if they had flowed from a glacier. 
The Indians were proud of the spring and used its 
water freely. They said it possessed medicinal proper- 
ties. They also claimed that it was bewitched. Said 
one of the chiefs in Chinook jargon to the new ar- 
rivals : 

“If a woman should look into the water when the 
moon is at its full she’ll see reflected in it the face of 
the man who loves her. If a man looks into the water 
he will see the woman who loves him and will marry 
him should he ask her. If a woman is childless this 
water will give her plenty. The tree is a god. It 
guards the spirit of the spring, and as long as the 
tree stands the water will creep to its foot for pro- 


4 


The Mystic Spring, 


tection and shade; cut down the tree and the spring 
will be seen no more.” 

Such was the Indian tradition which had clung to 
the maple and the spring through many ages of sav- 
age occupation. When I first visited the bay in i860 
I reached it by means of a narrow and tortuous trail 
that led down the side of the hill and terminated at 
the foot of the big maple. I had heard the legend 
about the Mystic Spring, and rode out to investigate. 
I drank of the waters, and they were sweet and cool, 
though the day was warm. My companions, who 
were young men and women from Victoria, knelt at 
the side of the water and tried, without success, to 
conjure up the faces of their future husbands or 
wives. 

“The moon must be shining and at its full before 
you can see the spirit, and this is midday. You can’t 
expect to see anything now,” said one of the girls. 

After that visit Cadboro Bay became a favorite re- 
sort. We put a rude table and a bench at the foot of 
the maple, which we christened “Father Time” be- 
cause of a few sprays of “old man’s beard” that hung 
from a branch. We called the spring Undine, after 
the famous water sprite of fiction, and nearly every 
fine Saturday afternoon we formed a small party and 
rode on Indian ponies to the spot. After luncheon we 
donned bathing suits and disported in the waters of 
the bay until the chill breeze and setting sun admon- 
ished us that the hour had arrived when we must seek 
our homes. 

The fame of “Father Time” and sweet Undine 
spread far and wide, and many were the trips made 
by the lovesick of both sexes to the spring. When 
the moon was at its full the visitors sought to con- 
jure up their future partners. If they met with suc- 
cess I never heard of it. One lovely evening in Au- 


'AND Other Tales of .Western Life 


5 


gust, 1862, I rode out to the spring. I wanted to 
test the truth of the pretty legend and did not expect 
to meet any other person there. As I descended the 
hill I heard voices, and to my surprise soon saw that 
two ladies and two gentlemen had reached the spot 
before me. They rallied me as to the object of my 
visit at that untimely hour, and I frankly confessed 
that I was in search of the woman who was to be 
my wife. They were frank, too, and we found that 
all had come on the same errand. At eight o’clock 
the harvest moon rose in all its splendor, and before 
nine it shone full upon the enchanted spot. Its rays 
seemed to force themselves through the foliage of the 
grand old maple, and lighted up the placid waters of 
Undine, which glistened like molten silver. 

“Come on, girls,” cried one of the young fellows, 
“let’s take a peep.” 

The girls advanced timidly and then fell back. They 
were afraid to look lest they should see something 
that would not be pleasant — ^the whole affair was so 
uncanny. 

“Well,” continued the young man, “if you won’t, I 
will,” and he gazed long and earnestly into the water 
and then rising, said: 

“I saw only the reflection of my own ugly face — I 
saw that plainly.” 

I tried my luck next with a like result. The waters 
gave back only my own features. I squinted and the 
reflection squinted. I made a grimace and it grimaced. 
I raised my hand and the figure raised its hand. 

“Pshaw!” I cried, “that Indian legend is a hum- 
bug — there’s no spirit here. Hurry up — try it and 
let’s go home.” 

One of the young ladies who had gathered courage 
by this time advanced and knelt at the side of the pool. 
She was very nervous, but gazed long and earnestly 
into the depths. I had turned away to untie my horse, 


6 


Xhe Mystic Spring, 


\ 


intending to mount him for home, in deep regret at 
the time lost on an errand so foolish. 

‘Thus/’ said I, “is another colossal Indian legend 
bubble pricked.” 

“I rrfvcr did believe in the story,” said the young 
man who had not yet tried his luck, “and I never knew 
an Indian legend that was not false all the way 
through.” 

I was about to make a remark in reply when my 
attention was arrested by a cry from the remaining 
young man. 

“Look! — bok at Annie!” he cried. 

I looked. The girl had fallen forward and her 
face lay submerged in the ice-cold water. To leap 
forward and lift her from her position required but 
an instant. She was motionless. We laid her on the 
grass beneath “Father Time,” and chafed her hands 
and temples. We at first feared that she was dead. 
(The other girl had a small flask of sal volatile and 
used it, and in a few minutes the patient came to her 
senses and rose to her feet with assistance. 

“Take — oh! take me home!” she murmured, and 
then she went into a fit of hysterics. Her screams 
were fearful, and her peals of laughter were unearthly. 
It was a new experience for me. I had never before 
seen a woman in a state of hysteria, and all were at 
our wits’ ends to know what to do to restore the girl. 
At last she ceased to shriek and laugh, and cried softly. 

“Annie,” asked the other girl, “what’s the matter 
with you? Why do you cry? What did you see? 
You silly little thing, to frighten us all so.” 
j “Oh!” she moaned, “that face — ^that dreadful face 
I ' — the face I saw in the spring.” 

I “What was it? — ^tell us,” we all cried, 
t “Oh!” the girl replied with a shudder and with 
^mptoms of a relapse, “it was fearful — the most aw- 
.^1 I ever saw. A low-browed, cunning face, deeply 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 


1 


lined with wicked thoughts and evil designs, and such 
awful eyes! He raised his hand to clutch me and I 
fainted. And he’s to be my future husband! No, I’d 
sooner die than marry him.” 

We rode as far as the farmhouse of John Tod, by 
which time the ]^oung lady had become so weak that 
she could not maintain her seat on the horse. Mr. Tod 
placed his horse and buggy at our service, and we 
reached town without further incident late in the 
evening. By common consent it was agreed that 
nothing should be said of the affair, but it leaked out 
- — such things always do — and the fame of Undine 
spread far and near. For a long time the locality was 
a favorite resort for bathing and picnic parties and 
love-sick youths of both sexes. My visits after that 
night were not frequent, and the two young ladies 
who were present that evening could not be induced to 
go there at all. I never learned with any degree of 
certainty that that presence or any other presence ever 
again appeared at the spring; but the pretty Indian 
legend clung to it, and the girls and boys continued 
to direct their footsteps to the shrine for several years. 

Late in the afternoon of the 21st April, 1868, Benja- 
min Evans, who owned a small property facing on 
Cadboro Bay, was at work in his garden. The day 
was beautiful. The sun shone warmly, and the new 
grass and the young foliage of the trees gave promise 
of an early and bountiful season. As Evans delved 
j he saw descending the road that led down the hill to 
the bay a handsome young lady. She was stylishly 
dressed in a brightly-colored gown with voluminous 
skirts, and wore a turban or toque, about which was 
loosely coiled a bright green veil. The young woman 
inquired if she was on the right road to the bay. 
Evans replied, “Yes.” 


8 


iThe Mystic Spring, 


“And,” said she, after a moment’s hesitation, “where 
is the wonderful magic spring?” 

Evans laughed good-naturedly as he said, “Ho ! ho ! 
Do you think you’ll find him?” 

“Find who?” asked the girl, archly. 

“Why, your future husband,” replied Evans. “Take 
care he doesn’t jump out of the spring and hug you 
to death!” 

It was the girl’s turn to laugh, but she said nothing, 
and Evans directed her to the locality of the spring, 
and she continued on her way. 

Some two hours later, and shortly before dark, an 
Indian lad who was walking along the trail saw a 
well-dressed young woman sitting on the rustic bench 
at the spring-side. Her face was buried in her hands, 
and her elbows rested on the table. The turban had 
fallen from her head and lay on the grass. The boy 
watched the woman for some time. She seemed in 
great distress and moaned and wept, sometimes rock- 
ing her body to and fro in her anguish. Nightfall 
was coming on and even to the mind of that untutored 
savage the impropriety of this young lady remaining 
in that lonely spot all night, exposed to the chill air 
or an attack from wild animals, with which the locality 
was infested at the time, was manifest, so he went and 
told his father and mother, who were encamped 
nearby. The old people watched the young stranger 
for some time, peeping through the underbrush. The 
lady seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Was she 
waiting for the moon to rise? If so, she had made 
an error, for there was no moon that night. Had she 
a tryst? There was no evidence of one, for no one 
had met her. She just seemed a young person to 
whom disappointment, sudden and keen, had come, and 
who had sought that lonesome spot to pour out her 
sorrows to the stars which sparkled brightly overhead. 
At last her head reclined on her arms, and she ap- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 9 
peared to fall fast asleep. The watchers left her there. 

In the middle of the night the boy awoke with a 
start and leaped to his feet. He listened, and a wail 
like that of a woman in deep distress fell on his ear. 
He called to his father, “That King George klootch- 
man (Englishwoman) is crying for help. Listen!” 

The old man bent his ear and listened for a few 
moments. All was still. Save for the waving of the 
mighty pines in the night wind and the lapping of the 
waves on the beach, no sound disturbed the stillness. 
“Go to sleep,” he at last said, “you pilton (fool). It’s 
only a panther calling to its mate.” And the boy went 
back to his bed. 

In the morning, bright and early, the Indian lad 
was astir. He walked to where he could gain a view 
of the spring and its surroundings. The “klootch- 
man” had disappeared. He drew nearer. There, 
lying on the ground where it had fallen, was the tur- 
ban with the green veil tied about it. His practiced 
eye detected the marks of small footsteps on the sward. 
He traced them through a clump of bushes to the edge 
of the bank overlooking the bay. Lying on the bank 
he found a crinoline or hoop-skirt which had been 
unbuckled at the waist. He pressed forward to a 
spot where he commanded a better view of the water, 
and then he saw something that froze his young blood, 
accustomed though he was to gruesome sights. He 
hastened back to the camp, aroused his father and 
mother, and the three ran to the spot and drew from 
the water the body of the strange girl, which was 
floating face downward. She had divested herself of 
a part of her raiment and fallen or flung herself from 
the bluff. Death came from drowning, and there were 
no marks of violence. The body was brought to town 
and identified as that of a most respectable young^ 


10 


The Mystic Spring, 


lady, named Julia Booth, who lived with her parents 
near Victoria. Beneath “Father Time” and near the 
Mystic Spring were found torn fragments of paper 
upon which there had been words written ; but the bits 
were too minute to be pieced. On the bench was a 
sheet of notepaper upon which were written the fol- 
lowing words from a then popular song: 

“Farewell, farewell, ’tis a solemn sound 
And often brings a sigh. 

But give to me that good old word 
That comes from the heart — good-bye.” 

Miss Booth was a light-hearted and sensible girl 
and as pure as the virgin snow. Had she, with only 
the stars to light up the pool, seen the presence that 
so affrighted the girl six years before, had the spirit 
tried to seize her, and had she fled to the water to 
escape a supposed impending fate? or was her case 
one of disappointed love and suicide? 

Nearly twenty years later the vandal hand of man 
seized upon “Father Time.” The hand held an axe 
within its grasp and before its sharp strokes the mon- 
arch was laid low. It fell with a great crash that 
shook the earth. An old Indian witnessed the desecra- 
tion. His forefathers had worshipped that tree and 
he wanted it saved. Could he have expressed himself 
in verse he probably would have wailed : 

“Woodman, spare that tree, 

Touch not a single bough, 

In youth it sheltered me 
And I’ll protect it now.” 

With the tragic end of the old tree the Mystic 
Spring disappeared and was seen no more. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life ii 

I almost forgot to say that the young lady who 
saw the spirit married a few months later, and that 
she ^ot for a husband one of the best fellows on earth. 
She IS still a resident of Victoria, and so are her chil- 
dren and her grandchildren. 


A CHILD THAT FOUND ITS FATHER. 

“Not in entire forgetfulness 
And not in utter darkness. 

But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 
From God, who is our home; 

Heaven lies above us in our infancy.” 

Wordsworth. 

Many years ago, as far back as 1858, there was great 
excitement along the Pacific Coast consequent upon 
the discovery of gold on the bars of Fraser River, in 
British Columbia. Miners and business men from 
California, Oregon and Washington Territory made 
their way in thousands to the new gold fields, and the 
tents of a multitude of gold-seekers lined the banks 
of that wild stream, while towns and villages sprang 
up as if by magic. Every available craft was engaged 
to bear the miners to the Promised Land, and for 
many weeks steamships, sailing vessels, and even tiny 
fishing smacks, left San Francisco with full lists of 
passengers and as much freight as could be crammed 
into their holds. The country washed by Fraser River 
was then known as New Caledonia. It is now called 
British Columbia, and forms one of the richest and 
most important provinces of the Dominion of Canada. 

In the year mentioned I was a vigorous youth, full 
of hope and enthusiasm, and yielding to the prompt- 
ings of a roving nature, I left San Francisco for the 


12 


The Mystic Spring, 


new gold mines. I built a shack on the flat or town- 
site at Yale, at the head of navigation, and opened a 
general store, to which I added the agency of Ballou’s 
express. I remained at Yale continuously until the 
month of May, 1859, when I had occasion to visit the 
capital, Victoria, on Vancouver Island. While on my 
way back on a stern-wheel steamer commanded and 
owned by Captain Tom Wright, a popular steamboat 
man of the day, the strangest experience of my life 
began. 

On the first day out I made the acquaintance of a 
young American who called himself Thomas Eaton, 
and during a close acquaintanceship, which lasted two 
years, I found him a thoroughly good chap and per- 
fectly reliable on all occasions. There were several 
other young fellows on board who were going to try 
their luck at the new mines, and as all were about of 
an age we soon became very friendly and communi- 
cative as to our plans and prospects. One of these 
young men was of rather stout build and medium 
height. He had a refined look, spoke in a slow and 
guarded manner, and wore his dark hair cut short. 
The weather was warm, but the evenings were chilly 
and a top-coat was essential for comfort. This partic- 
ular young man did not seem to be the possessor of a 
top-coat. He wore a long linen duster, and was accus- 
tomed to stand on the deck with his hands in his pock- 
ets as if to keep them warm. 

“Why don’t you put on an overcoat?” I asked him. 
“You’ll catch cold.” 

“Oh,” he shivered back, “I haven’t any. I left home 
in a hurry and forgot to buy one at Victoria,” and his 
teeth chattered until I thought they would shake out 
of their sockets. 

“Why, don’t you get a blanket out of your stateroom 
and put it over your shoulders ?” I asked. 


Yai.k in 1858 









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mimm. 'Ht^ ^ ^ 






AND Other Tales of Western Life 13 

“To tell you the truth,” he replied, “I haven’t a 
room or a berth, either.” 

“But you can get one easily enough,” I cried. 

“Here, Seymour,” I called to the purser, “here’s a 
young man who wants a berth. There’s a spare one 
in my room. There are places for three, and only 
Eaton and I are in the room.” 

“All right,” said the purser. “The lower berth, is 
it? Two dollars and a half, please.” 

“No, no,” quickly responded the young fellow. “I 
couldn’t think of inconveniencing you, sir. Two are 
enough in a room. I’ll sit up till we get to Yale to- 
morrow night. I’m used to sitting up,” he continued, 
“and don’t mind it a bit.” 

The purser, busy man that he was, strode off with 
an impatient shrug of his shoulders. 

“Well, at any rate,” said I, “you shall have a cov- 
ering,” so, proceeding to the room, I drew a blanket 
from the lower bunk and handed it to the young fel- 
low, who accepted it gratefully and put it about him. 
Then we stood near the smoke stack to enjoy the heat 
and exchange confidences. He told me that his name 
was Harry Collins; that his father and mother lived 
at San Francisco, and that he was on his way to join 
a brother, George Collins, who owned a rich claim 
somewhere on the Fraser River. Did I know his 
brother? No; I had never met a man of that name, 
but among the many thousands engaged in gold hunt- 
ing at that time he might easily be there and I not 
know him. About ten o’clock I turned in, leaving 
Harry Collins standing as close as he could to the 
stack with the blanket wrapped about him. 

In the morning I told Eaton about the young man 
and after breakfast we found him still standing near 
where I had left him during the night. No, he hadn’t 
slept a wink; and indeed his face gave evidence of 
great fatigue. Fie looked really ill. Had he break- 


14 


The Mystic Spring, 


fasted yet? No, he didn’t care for anything to eat. 
Would a cup of tea or cotfee be appreciated ? 

“No, thank you; I am not thirsty,” he said, but in 
spite of his refusal I thought I noticed a wistful look 
steal across his face. Drawing Eaton aside I told him 
I was afraid that what ailed the young man were the 
two “p’s,” pride and poverty. He had no money and 
was too proud to disclose his plight. 

“Let’s make him eat,” cried Eaton. So together 
we went to the steward and arranged to have a sub- 
stantial meal set in the saloon after all the others had 
left it. Then one of the waiters was sent to Mr. Col- 
lins with a message that he was wanted below. All 
unsuspecting, the young man followed the waiter and 
the steward told him his breakfast was getting cold. 

“But I didn’t order breakfast,” he exclaimed, start- 
ing back. 

“Cap’en’s orders,” returned the steward. 

“But — but — I have no money to pay for it,” he 
whispered in the steward’s ear. 

“You don’t have to pay no money for it,” replied 
the steward, who had been duly tipped. “It’s all right. 
This is the Cap’en’s birthday, and it’s his treat.” 

Still doubting and protesting Collins was gently 
pushed by the steward into a seat, and the waiter 
asked: “Tea or coffee, sir?” 

“Tea, please,” he responded; then, turning to the 
steward, he said to him with a suspicious air, “Was 
no one charged for meals this morning? — Was every- 
one treated the same as I am being treated ?” 

“Yes,” said the wicked steward “Everybody, and 
you’re the only man that objected. And I’ll tell you > 
more; if you don’t eat that grub Cap’en Wright will 
be real mad. He won’t take a insult from no one. 
Did you ever see him mad? No? Well, you don’t 
want to. If I were to tell him you refused to eat at 
his expense on his birthday the ship wouldn’t hold 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 15 

you both. Why, if you and him was a-standin’ at a 
bar and he asked you to jine him and you didn’t the 
chances is that he’d shoot the top of your head off. So 
you’d better pitch in an’ eat before he happens along.” 

A look of terror came into poor Collins’s face. He 
surrendered and fell to, and the way the eatables and 
drinkables disappeared down his throat was a sight for 
epicures. Had Lucullus been at that table he would 
have laid down his knife and fork and acknowledged 
himself beaten at his favorite pastime. Half an hour 
later I peeped into the little saloon and there sat the 
young gentleman still at the table, with his head on 
his arms, fast asleep in the midst of the wreck of his 
breakfast. The good-hearted steward explained that 
he had dropped off quite suddenly, and that he hated 
to disturb him, as he seemed to need rest so badly. 
When the time came to s^jread the cloth for the mid- 
day meal he was gently awakened, and apologizing for 
having turned the saloon into a bedroom, he went on 
deck, where he found Eaton and me awaiting, with 
appetites like those of young wolves, the first tinkle of 
the dinner bell. The pioneers ate dinner at the uncon- 
ventional hour of twelve M. It was only after the 
dawn of civilization that British Columbians began 
dining at seven. 

We reached Yale before dark and landed at once. 
I am sorry to say that I forgot all about Collins. 
Eaton went to an hotel, and I went to my own quar- 
ters back of the express office. My assistant at that 
time was Arthur Vann. He was expecting to hear 
any day of the death of his mother, with whom he had 
parted on bad terms, and said that when she died he 
would inherit a moderate fortune. 

The next morning, while writing at my desk, I 
heard a footstep, and on looking up saw my fellow 
passenger of the day before. He looked wan and ill, 


i6 


The Mystic Spring, 


and black half circles under his eyes gave evidence of 
great weariness, if not of want of sleep. 

“Are there any letters for Harry Collins ?” he asked, 
timidly. 

“None,” replied Vann.. 

“Any for George Collins?” 

The same answer was returned, and he was walking 
slowly away when I asked him where he was staying 
in town? 

“Nowhere,” he replied. 

“Nowhere!” I exclaimed. “Do you mean to say — 
where did you stay last night?” 

“I didn’t stay anywhere. I just walked back and 
forth between here and the Indian village.” 

“Good gracious, man,” I cried, “why did you not 
knock me up? I’d have given you a place to sleep. 
Have you had anything to eat to-day?” 

“No, sir,” he replied faintly. “And yesterday I 
had nothing but breakfast.” 

“Good C^dl” cried old Vann, as he seized him by 
the hand and fairly dragged him into ‘the back room. 
“Starving in the midst of plenty, are ye? Not much, 
as long as my name’s Vann, you won’t. Here, set 
down, set down, boy; set down! We can’t give you 
table-cloths or napkins or finger-bowls, and we can’t 
feed you on mutton chops or beefsteaks, or fried oys- 
ters or sweetbreads, but by the living jingo we can 
make you grow fat on pork and beans and slapjacks — 
yes, and, by Jove ! here’s a can of roast turke^;^what’s 
left of it. Set right down, boy, and make yourself at 
home !” 

The young fellow protested feebly; but it was of ■ 
no use; Vann pushed him into a seat at the table and 
set before him the things he had enumerated in the 
verbal menu, and we soon had the satisfaction of see- 
ing our guest eating heartily. Between mouthfuls he 
would murmur his thanks, while tears stole silently 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 17 

down his cheeks. As he ate I recalled my own plight 
at San Francisco three years before, where I walked 
the streets hungry and friendless for many hours until 
I met a classmate who loaned me sufficient to buy a 
meal, and I felt thankful that I was enabled in a sense 
to repay that act of kindness by befriending this 
stranger. 

The repast finished, Vann announced that he had 
fixed up a bed for the young fellow on a bale of 
blankets in the store, behind a screen of empty boxes, 
where he might sleep till next day, and presently the 
grateful man stole off to bed, lying down with his 
clothes on. He slept all day, only awakening when 
Vann served him with a cup of tea and some buttered 
toast, and when I looked in before retiring our guest 
was again wrapped in a heavy slumber. In the morn- 
ing he was still in bed and asleep, but while Vann was 
busily engaged in preparing our breakfast he rose and 
tried to steal off unobserved. Vann, however, was on 
the lookout for him ,and made him wait for breakfast. 
After the meal Collins insisted on helping to wash the 
dishes — a task that I always abhorred — and he proved 
himself well versed in the art of keeping a kitchen and 
its utensils clean. Vann soon began calling him Harry 
and making harmless jests which he enjoyed keenly. 

Now, there was resident in Yale at that time a 
woman who was known as Johanna Maguire. She 
was a turbulent, noisy, spiteful character, and when 
intoxicated, as she often was, she was looked upon as 
dangerous. She was said to be well connected in 
Dublin, and was accustomed to call at the express office 
for her letters each week on the arrival of a letter bag 
from below. On this particular morning the Maguire 
woman entered the office just as young Collins was 
passing out. 

“Who’s that?” asked the woman, sharply. 

“Oh, a friend of the boss,” explained Vann. 


i8 


The Mystic Spring, 


“Who is he?” she asked of me. 

“A friend of mine,” I replied in an indifferent tone. 

“A friend, is it?” she said, mockingly. “Fot’s his 
name?” 

“Oh, never you mind,” said I, testily ; “he’s a good 
fellow, and that’s enough for you to know.” 

“Good, is he? Good for what? Good for nothin’. 
Look out for him. I stared him square in the eye, and 
divil a bit would he look at me! There’s somethin’ 
wrong wid him, I tell ye.” 

I saw that the woman was in one of her worst 
moods, and I knew that unless I conquered her then 
she would never again treat me with respect. So I 
prepared for a tussle. 

“Johanna,” I said, “listen to me. You never come 
here that you have not something to say that you 
ought not to say about someone. Sometimes I come 
under the harrow of your tongue. At others it is a 
woman whose only misfortune is that she has to 
breathe the same air you do. And now it’s this friend- 
less boy. You must stop the flow of your evil tongue 
or cease coming here at all.” 

The woman turned red and then white with rage. 
“Hould your own tongue or it’ll be the wuss for ye. 
Things has come to a pretty pass when a brat the likes 
of you dares talk to a woman that’s ould enough to 
be— to be ” 

“His mother?” I cut in. I could not help it; the 
temptation was great. 

I thought she would have brained me with a heavy 
weight that lay on the counter. She made a spring 
forward, but restrained herself with difficulty, and 
with white, quivering lips demanded to be told what 
I would do to her if she did not behave herself. 

“Would I trow her into the strate?” 

“No,” I said, “but I’ll write to Mr. Ballou and tell 
him to send no more of your letters by express. They 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 19 

will then come on a week later by mail, if they get 
here at all. You are not fit to come in contact with the 
decent men and women who visit here.” 

To my surprise she turned her face toward the door 
and walked slowly out. Ten minutes later she came 
back, and extending her hand, said: “I want yez to 
fergive me; I’ll be good as gowld after this. Sure, I 
meant to ha-r-r-m to the bye or to ye, but I have the 
divil’s own timper, and that added to a dhrop of rum 
I took down the strate just upset me intirely.” 

So we shook hands. The woman never afterwards 
misbehaved herself while in my establishment, and I 
was not a little proud of my victory. 

The next day I got work for Collins on a claim that 
I was interested in on Yale Bar. He continued to 
sleep in the outer office ; and every morning he would 
light the fire, and get everything in readiness for 
Vann’s cooking, besides helping to “rid up,” as he 
called it. In the evening, after supper, after helping 
to “rid up,” he retired to his rude couch. He neither 
smoked nor played cards. He did not drink or swear, 
and Vann, who did all four with the usual trimmings, 
suddenly dropped them, and when anything went 
wrong — for instance, when a cup or saucer fell on the 
floor and was smashed — instead of sending an oath 
after it, he took to whistling a favorite tune. One day 
Vann told me that on rising rather earlier than usual 
he had found Harry on his knees beside the bale of 
blankets, evidently praying. 

“Now,” said the old man, “he didn’t know that I 
seen him, so I just sneaked away in my stocking feet. 
I go my pile on a man who prays by himself, and don’t 
let anyone but God see or hear him. It’s them Faro- 
sees that stands on street corners and blathers in your 
ears that don’t count for much. Their prayers ain’t 
worth shucks, and the Bible says so, leastwise it used 


20 


The Mystic Spring, 


t» say so when I went to Sunday School, and I ain’t 
heerd that’s it been changed any, have you?” 

Harry was never out of temper, and was always 
willing to do his share of the house-work ; but he had 
a sad, pensive way about him which it quite baffled all 
my efforts to penetrate. Vann sized him up as in love, 
and I resolved that when that big brother of his came 
down the trail I would ask him what was the matter 
with the boy. 

One day, about a week after we had taken the young 
man in, Vann came to me with an open letter in his 
hand. 

“My mother’s dead,” he said. “She’s gone at last, 
and I’m rich. I resign my position at once, for I must 
go down the river to-morrow. I’ll tell you what to do : 
put young Collins into my place. He’s just the man 
for you.” 

I went at once down to the claim. There I saw Col- 
lins standing on top of a long range of sluice boxes, 
armed with a sluice fork, engaged in clearing the 
riffles of large stones and sticks which, unless removed, 
would obstruct the passage of the water and gravel and 
prevent the capture of the tiny specks of gold by the 
quicksilver wdth which the riffles were charged. 

On the way I met the foreman. He was in a white 
rage because I had sent a “counter-jumper,” a mere 
whipper-snapper, down to do a miner’s work. He had 
tried him at the shovel and pick, and he was too weak 
to handle them, and so he had put him at the lightest 
job on the sluices. “He won’t take off his coat like 
the other boys, and all the men are threatening to 
strike because they have to do harder work for the 
same pay that he’s getting. There he stands, with his 
long duster flapping in the wind, like a pillow-case on 
a clothesline,” concluded the foreman with a look of 
disgust on his face. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 21 

“Never mind, Bill,” said I, “you won’t be troubled 
with him any more. I have a better job for him.” 

“I pity the job,” said Bill. 

I passed down to where Collins was at work and 
told him of Vann’s fortune and his own promotion. 
He was released at once, and accompanied me back 
to the office, where he was duly installed. Vann left 
the next day, and Collins proved to be an excellent 
cook, as neat as any housewife, and a fairly good 
bookkeeper. But I could never induce him to sleep in 
the bed that had been vacated by Vann until he had 
removed it into the outer office. He said the back 
room was too small for two people, and that the air 
was better in the larger room. 

Of every miner who came into the office from above 
the canyon Collins made anxious inquiries about his 
brother. Did they know him by name, or had they 
met anyone who answered to the description which 
he gave them ? The answers were always in the nega- 
tive, but he never despaired and every failure seemed 
only to incite him to renewed inquiries. 

The months of July and August, 1859, were un- 
usually dry and the weather was sultry. Every even- 
ing, after Collins had “rid up” the kitchen, he would 
sit on a box in front of the store and listen to the won- 
derful tales of gold finds as they were narrated by 
miners and prospectors. He would never utter a word, 
but would listen, with his big blue eyes wide open, as 
if the tales astonished and entranced him. One night, 
I remember, the full moon shone brightly upon the 
group that had gathered near the door, and the rays 
seemed to rest like a halo of silver about the boy’s 
head and face. His profile was delicate and expressive, 
and as I gazed I felt strongly and unaccountably 
drawn toward him. A strange emotion stirred my 
heart and a wave of tenderness such as I had never 
before experienced swept through every fibre of my 


22 


The Mystic Spring, 


being. What ails me? I asked myself. As if in an- 
swer to my mental question, the boy turned his head 
and looked in my direction. When he saw that I was 
observing him he dropped his eyes and, rising quickly, 
gazed long and anxiously in the direction of the canyon 
and at the sullen river which roared loudly on its way 
to the ocean. Then he sighed deeply, breathed a 
gentle “good-night,” and retired to his bed in the cor- 
ner. 

Long after the company had departed I sat and 
mused, and the subject of my thoughts was young 
Collins. I could not understand my feelings. Why 
should I be attracted toward him more than to any 
other young man ? Why was I always happy when he 
was near and depressed when he was absent? Why 
did I lie awake at night trying to work out some plan 
to send word to his brother? Why did the sound of 
his voice or his footstep send the hot young blood 
bounding through my veins ? What was he to me that 
every sense should thrill, and my heart beat wildly at 
his approach? Were the mysterious forces of Nature 
making themselves heard and felt? Presently I heard 
the door behind me softly open, and turning my head I 
saw a figure steal out into the moonlight. It was the 
boy, fully dressed. He held in one hand a small par- 
cel. He did not see me as I sat on the bench, but 
passed noiselessly by toward the river. I was spell- 
bound with astonishment. Where could he be going 
at that hour? I watched him as he descended the face 
of the flat and picked his way rapidly through the 
boulders toward the swift- rolling river. I tried to call 
to him, but terror had locked my tongue. I tried to 
rise and fly to him, but I was as if rooted to the spot. 
I could only look and wring my hands as I saw Harry 
reach the water’s edge and plunge without a moment’s 
pause into the seething torrent. He was swept away 
in an instant. For a moment he remained on the sur- 



The Boy Turned His Head and Looked in My Direction 



AND Other Tales of Western Life 23 

face, and then disappeared in the foam. Next I be- 
came conscious that some one was speaking to me, 
and a rough voice said : 

“Don’t you know any better than to go to sleep in 
the moonlight. It’s a wonder your face is not drawn 
out of shape. You’d better go to your room and bathe 
your head in cold water.” 

I looked up and saw standing by my side a neigh- 
bor. He said he had found me asleep, and took the ^ 
liberty of awakening me. I thanked him and went 
inside. As I passed into my own room I heard Harry 
softly breathing, and then I knew that he was safe, and 
I had only dreamed that a tragedy had taken place. 

I could not explain why, but from that night a dark 
shadow seemed to have risen between the boy and me, 
and I felt that I no longer possessed his confidence or 
he mine. 

I am not sure as to the precise date or the month 
when the circumstance I am about to relate took place. 
It was, however, either in the latter part of August or 
the early part of September, 1859, nearly four months 
after I had first met Collins on the steamer, that he 
came to me one afternoon and complained of feel- 
ing very sick, almost as if he would die. I told 
him to go into my room and lie down in my bunk, 
which he did. In the bustle and hurry of receiving 
and dispatching a letter and treasure express I forgot 
all about the toy and his troubles until two or three 
hours later, when, recalling his illness, I asked the Ma- 
guire woman, who had entered the office for a letter 
and who had lately taken to patronizing the toy, to 
see how he was getting on. She was inside for about 
five minutes, and then, coming out on tiptoe as softly 
as a cat in pursuit of a mouse, she asked me, in a 
whisper, to go at once for Dr. Fifer, the leading sur- 
geon at the time, adding, “The bye’s very sick. He’s 
all of a shiver. I think he’s e^ot the cholery morbus.” 


24 


iThe Mystic Spring, 


I summoned Fifer, and was about to enter the room 
when Johanna barred my entrance, and requested me 
for “the g-ood Lord’s sake to shtay out. The bye must 
be kept quiet.” 

I rebelled at this treatment, and was preparing for 
another verbal conflict with the woman when the doc- 
tor came to her assistance and added his entreaty to 
hers. So I remained out, but determined to have an 
explanation later on. As I was fuming and fretting 
over the impudence of keeping a man from entering 
his own room, the doctor came out with a puzzled look 
on his face. 

“Really,” he commenced, “this is a most 'remarkable 
case. It beats everything. In all my experience I 
never saw anything like it. How long have you known 
Collins ?” 

I told him about four months. 

“Humph! Really this is extraordinary — most ex- 
traordinary.” 

What he would have said further will never be re- 
corded, for at that moment the shrill voice of Johanna 
Maguire was heard. 

“Docther, come quick! come quick!” 

The doctor rushed inside, and in five or six minutes 
came out again. He put his hand on my shoulder and 
looking at me full in the face said solemnly : “It’s my 
duty to tell you that Harry Collins is no more !” 

“Mercy!” I cried, shrinking back, “Not dead? not 
dead ?” 

“Well, no, not dead ; but you’ll never see him again.” 

“If he is not dead,” I said greatly agitated, “tell me 
what has happened or why I shall never see him again. 
You should not keep me in suspense.” 

“Well,” said the doctor, laughing heartily, “he is 
not dead. He’s very much alive. That is to say, he is 
doubly alive. Harry Collins is gone, but in his place 
there is a comely young woman who calls herself Har- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 25 

riet Collins, the wife of one George Collins, who is 
now above the canyon hunting for gold. She has just 
been delivered of a handsome baby girl that weighs at 
least seven pounds. That is all there is about it except 
that if your lady friends have any women’s dresses or 
babies’ clothes that they want to give away, the late 
Harry Collins and present Mrs. George Collins will 
be mighty glad to get them. With the exception of 
your blankets and your underwear, which Mrs. Ma- 
guire has appropriated for the purpose, she has noth- 
ing to wrap the baby in.” 

“Didn’t I tell you,” said Johanna the next day, “to 
watch that bye. I knowed there was something wrong 
about him, and I was roight. But I have looked out 
for yer charakther and mine, too. Before I’d do a 
hand’s turn I made her show me the marriage lines, 
and here they are. She wants you to see them.” 

The “lines” were a certificate of the marriage by 
the Rev. Dr. Scott, of San Francisco, of George Col- 
lins and Harriet Hurst, less than a year before. 

The ladies of Yale very liberally gave Mrs. Collins 
dresses and undergarments from their own wardrobes 
for herself and her baby. There was only one sewing 
machine in the town, and it was soon at work, altering 
and making garments for the mother and the little 
stranger. On the third day I was admitted to the pres- 
ence of the young mother and her first-born. She 
asked my forgiveness for the deception she had prac- 
tised, and pleaded that it was a desire to be near her 
husband, and also the cruel treatment of a stepmother, 
that had induced her to seek him without money or 
friends and in male attire. 

Tommy Eaton and I set our wits at work to find 
the husband, but were unsuccessful until one day, some 
four weeks after the arrival of the little girl, a tall, 
travel-stained young man entered the express office 
and asked if there was a letter for George Collins. 


26 


The Mystic Spring, 


Eaton, who assisted me in place of the late Harry 
Collins, told him there was none. 

“Are there any packages — I expect a valuable one 
from San Francisco?” he said, 

“No, there are no packages of any kind for George 
Collins,” was the reply. “But here’s the agent, ask 
him,” as I stepped into the office. 

“Any package for George Collins ?” 

“Is that your name?” 

“Yes,” he said; and I am bound to say that he an- 
swered the late boy’s description of his brother. 

“Well, if you are the right George Collins, there are 
two most valuable packages awaiting you here, but you 
will have to be identified before you can get them,” I 
said. 

“I know no one in Yale,” he replied. 

“Then,” said I, “they are living packages and can 
speak for themselves. Come into the back room and 
see if they belong to you ?” 

As we walked toward the room the door was flung 
back and an apparition, clad in white, with outstretched 
hands and eyes wide open and staring, stood framed 
in the opening. 

“George ! George !” the apparition wildly cried. “Oh ! 
I knew your voice. I would know it among a million. 
My dear, dear husband, God has answered my prayers 
and brought you back to me safe and sound. I am 
so tired, so tired,” and she tottered and would have 
fallen had not the young man sprung forward and 
folded her in his great arms, and pressed her sweet 
head against his heart, while tears of joy and thank- 
fulness chased each other down his face. 

As they retired within the room I closed the door 
and was turning away when I heard a noise as of some- 
one sobbing. I turned, and there stood Tommy Eaton 
with his handkerchief to his eyes, crying as if his heart 
would break. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 27 

“You big chump,” I began. “You ought to be 

ashamed of yourself. What business ?” I never 

finished the sentence. I couldn’t ; and it has not been 
finished to this day. 

The great news spread rapidly. The town, which 
had begun to recover from the excitement consequent 
upon the advent of the baby, was again thrown into a 
state of extreme agitation by the arrival of the father 
and husband. Collins proved to be a young man of 
some means, and in a little while he went about dis- 
charging certain liabilities that had been incurred by 
his wife. Mrs. Maguire declined any remuneration. 
In about a month it was announced that the pair with 
the baby would leave in a day or two for California. 
Before departing Mr. and Mrs. Collins — George car- 
rying the baby — went around and said good-bye to ^ 
those who had befriended them. When they knocked * 
at Johanna Maguire’s door she came outside. 

“Sure,” said she, “I’ll not ask ye in; but I give ye 
me blessing, and a piece of gowld for the baby.” 

She pressed a nugget into the proud mother’s hand, 
and continued, “I want to ask one favor of ye. Let 
me kiss the baby’s hand — sure I’m not good enough to 
kiss its lips.” She raised the hand to her mouth and 
covered it with kisses. Then she lifted the hem of the 
mother’s garment to her lips and was about to kiss it, 
when Mrs. Collins, tearing the garment from her 
grasp, threw her arms about the poor, lost one, and 
kissed her not once but a dozen times, saying that she 
was her own kindest and best friend, who had gone 
with her through the dark valley and shadow of death 
and wooed her back to life with motherly care and 
attention, and invoking Heaven’s choicest blessings on 
her head. In the midst of a torrent of tears the 
woman tore herself away and, rushing into her house, 
slammed the door violently and was not seen again 
for several days. 


28 


The Mystic Spring, 


Some weeks after Mr. and Mrs. Collins had gone 
away, engraved cards for the christening at San Fran- 
cisco of a mite to be named Caledonia H. Collins were 
received by nearly everyone in Yale. Mine was ac- 
companie ' by an explanatory note that the “H” stood 
for my smname, and that I was to be the godfather 
by proxy, /ohanna’s invitation was accompanied by 
a pretty gold watch and a loving letter from her late 
patient. 

Nine years sped away before I was enabled to visit 
San Francisco, and diligent enquiries failed to dis- 
cover any trace of the Collins family. They had moved 
away from the city, and I have never since heard of 
or from them. Somewhere on the face of this globe 
there should be a mature female who rejoices in the 
name of Caledonia H. Collins. If these lines should 
meet her eye I would be glad to learn her whereabouts, 
for I would travel many miles to meet the woman who 
under such extraordinary circumstances became my 
god-daughter. 


CHASING THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. 

“Fd be a butterfly; living a rover, dying when fair 
things are fading away.” 

Late in the month of July, 1858, I embarked on the 
small stern-wheel steamer Enterprise, owned and com- 
manded by Capt. Tom Wright, for the Fraser River 
Gold Mines. My destination was Yale, then the head 
of navigation. There was no wharf at Victoria at that 
time, the present wharf and warehouse of the Hudson 
Bay Company not having been built till a year later. 
The little craft was lying in a small slip, alongside an 
old warehouse quite recently torn down. The vessel 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 29 

was crowded with freight and passengers, and I was 
lucky in finding a vacant spot on the hurricane deck 
upon which to spread my blankets and lie down to un- 
pleasant dreams. In the morning early we entered 
Fraser River and by evening pulled in at Fort Lang- 
ley, a Hudson Bay post, where we remained over night. 
New Westminster had then no existence, a dense for- 
est of fir aiKi cedar occupying the site of the future 
Royal City. A mile or two below Langley some spec- 
ulative spirits were booming a town which they named 
Derby, but it was only a name. When I saw “Derby” 
two years later its only inhabitant was a bilious-look- 
ing old man with frayed trousers, and its only building 
was a warehouse that was destitute of wares and oc- 
cupants. At Langley several passengers left us and 
several came aboard. Among the latter were Mr. and 
Mrs. Wm. Power. They had been at Whatcom, and 
on the decay of that town had crossed by land to 
Langley and were now on their way to Yale to try 
their fortune there. Mr. and Mrs. Power and I soon 
became close friends. They were a most estimable 
couple and our intimacy lasted for many years. 

The passage up the river has been so often described 
that I shall not attempt it now. The wild scenery, of 
course, charmed all, and incidents of travel were novel 
and exciting to those who had not been accustomed to 
life outside of a large city. All along the river, wher- 
ever there occurred a bench or bar, miners were en- 
camped “waiting for the river to fall,” when they ex- 
pected to scoop up the gold by the handful and live 
at ease forevermore. The result was a practical ex- 
emplification of the larks one hopes to catch when the 
skies fall. 

At Hope we left the Enterprise, saying good-bye to 
our bluff and genial captain with regret, and placing 
our effects in a large canoe, proceeded up the river 
toward .Yale, where we arrived at nightfall the next 


30 


The Mystic Spring, 


day, tired, wet and blue, with clothes and boots in tat- 
ters and appetites that would have been envied by a 
pack of young cayotes. We slept in our clothes on 
blankets spread on the sands of the beach that night. 
In the morning we cooked some bacon and boiled a 
pot of coffee at a neighboring camp fire, and I started 
out to take in the situation. The town of Yale must 
have contained at that time between five and six thou- 
sand people, mostly enterprising young miners and 
business men from California who had come in pursuit 
of the Golden Butterfly, which most of its devotees 
and admirers in the result found both elusive and dis- 
appointing. 

One of the first men I ran against was a negro 
named Willis Bond, whom I dubbed the “Bronze 
Philosopher.” I had known him at San Francisco, 
where, having bought his freedom and made some 
money at the mines, he established himself as an auc- 
tioneer. Bond was glad to see me and introduced me 
to his partner, a Yorkshireman named Harrison. The 
two had built a ditch and were supplying water to 
the miners who were washing the bank and beach in 
front of Yale for gold. The next California acquain- 
tance I saw was John Kurtz. When I last met Kutrz 
at San Francisco he was dressed in the height of 
fashion and was one of the leaders of society there — a 
club member, a poet, a noted wit, a contributor to the 
press, and one of the most popular and amiable young 
fellows in that big city. At Yale he wore a miner’s 
gray shirt, his trousers were tucked in his boots, a 
Colt’s revolver was stuck in his waist-belt, and a 
slouched hat of large proportions half concealed his 
intellectual and handsome features. I was quite taken 
aback at the change ; but it was not many days before 
I was similarly attired and considered myself well 
dressed, too. Kurtz introduced me to his partner, a 
Mr. Hugh Nelson, a young man from the North of 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 31 


Ireland, and in every respect and under all circum- 
stances a gentleman. I pitched my tent close to theirs, 
and all three became quite chummy. The friendship 
thus formed was maintained for many years and until 
death carried off both Nelson and Kurtz. I often sit 
and wonder if the broken links in the chain of earthly 
friendship will be reunited in the other world ; or shall 
we embark upon the new existence with new aspira- 
tions and new aims, into which no thought, no remem- 
brance of our earthly career will enter. Shall we 
“know each other better when the clouds roll by,” or 
shall we know each other at all ? 

All was bustle and excitement in the new mining 
town. Every race and every color and both sexes were 
represented in the population. There were English- 
men, Canadians, Americans, Australians, Frenchmen, 
Germans, Spaniards, Mexicans, Chinese and Negroes 
— all bent on winning gold from the Fraser sands, and 
all hopeful of a successful season. It was a lottery in 
which there were few prizes. The diggings proved 
mostly unproductive, and at least 20,000 impoverished 
worshippers at the shrine of the Golden Butterfly left 
the river before the first snow fell. 

In every saloon a faro-bank or a three-card-monte 
table was in full swing, and the hells were crowded to 
suffocation. A worse set of cut-throats and all-round 
scoundrels than those who flocked to Yale from all 
parts of the world never assembled anywhere. Decent 
people feared to go out after dark. Night assaults 
and robberies, varied by an occasional cold-blooded 
murder or a daylight theft, were common occur- 
rences. Crime in every form stalked boldly through 
the town unchecked and unpunished. The good ele- 
ment was numerically large ; but it was dominated and 
terrorized by those whose trade it was to bully, beat, 
rob and slay. Often men who had differences in Cali- 
fornia met at Yale and proceeded to fight it out on 


32 


The Mystic Spring, 


British soil by American methods. Here is a sample 
of many cases. A young man named Walton camped 
near my tent. He was apparently well disposed and 
quiet, and about the last person whom I should have 
tnought would do anything wicked. He left his tent 
one morning and strolled to town — that is, to the bench 
which then overlooked and still overlooks the rushing 
Fraser. In about an hour he returned and, walking to 
the river bank, washed his hands. Then he took from 
a sheath attached to a belt that encircled his waist a 
knife and washed it, too. He dried the weapon on the 
sleeves of his gray shirt, and returning it to the sheath, 
walked towards his tent. As he passed me he said, 
without the slightest tremor in his voice or the least 
excitement in his manner: 

“Fve had a fight up-town.” 

“Did you kill your man ?” I asked, not for a moment 
imagining that anything serious had occurred. 

“No,” he said, “I did better — I maimed him for life. 
It’s just like this, you see: I had a row with a man 
named Dalton in the Calaveras mines a year ago. To- 
day he met me on the bench and drew a shotgun on 
me. I ran in and threw the gun up and the charge 
went into the air. Then I took my razor-edged bowie- 
knife and cut his right wrist, the tendons of it, clean 
across ; then I reached down and cut the knee tendons 
of his right leg, and he will be a cripple for life. He 
won’t shoot anyone else, I guess.” 

And so it proved. Dr. Fifer, the little German sur- 
geon, who dressed the arm and leg, told me the man 
might as well have had his hand and leg cut off for 
they would be useless for the remainder of his days. 
Dr. Fifer, I may as well remark here, was most foully 
murdered three years later. A man named Wall, who 
had been his patient, laboring under the belief that 
Fifer had ruined his health by malpractice, walked ug 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 33 

to him one morning in 1861, and handed him a news- 
paper, saying: 

“Read that, doctor.” 

Fifer, who was near-sighted, adjusted his spectacles 
and while reading the paragraph indicated the wretch 
shot him dead. Wall was captured at Hope, tried and 
executed. In his dying confession he accused a Dr. 
Crain, a professional rival of Fifer, of inciting him to 
commit the crime. Crain lost his practice and finally 
went away to Salt Lake, where he perished miserably 
by his own hand, he having been imprisoned for some 
offence. 

Hill’s Bar, two miles below Yale, was the scene of 
busy mining operations at this time. A narrow streak 
of pay-dirt on the bar proved very rich in flour-gold. 
This gold was so fine that you could blow it away with 
your breath. It was caught with the aid of quicksilver 
in sluices and rockers. The yield was very remunera- 
tive and the streak extended into the bench where it 
ran out. All efforts to trace the source of this rich 
deposit have failed. It has never been found. The 
discoverers of Hill’s Bar were a party of men who had 
been driven away from San Francisco by a Vigilance 
Committee. When news of the Fraser River gold dis- 
covery reached California these men joined the rush 
and secured the richest placer claims on the river. The 
leader of the Hill’s Bar roughs was a man named Ned 
McGowan. He had been a judge, a member of the 
legislature, a newspaper editor, and an all-round bad 
man in California. Had the Vigilance Committee 
caught him he would have been hanged, but he eluded 
them and came, as I have said, with many others of 
his class to New Caledonia, as the mainland of British 
Columbia was then called. One of his friends was 
John Bagley, a former leading politician at San Fran- 
cisco, who had also been driven away. These men 
gathered more of their kidney about them and pro- 


34 


The Mystic Spring, 


ceeded to wreak their vengeance on such members of 
the Vigilance Committee as came in their way on the 
Fraser River. Many persons having been brutally as- 
saulted and all but killed by the gang left the country 
lest worse things should befall them. 

Now, it happened that the first Gold Commissioner 
at Yale was a man named Dicks, a weak and corrupt 
person, who proceeded at once to feather his nest by 
exacting blackmail from miners and others. Among 
other things he secured a 50-year lease of the best part 
of Yale and charged enormous ground rents. His suc- 
cessor was a bigger failure than Hicks. His name was 
Blake Wadleigh. He laid claim to the title of Captain, 
and was wont to strut about in a uniform which he 
said he had worn in the Crimea, but several miners 
who had served in the Crimea declared that it was a 
sergeant’s uniform. Another report said that he had 
been a private in the Australian Gold Escort, and that 
his uniform must have been stolen from that corps. 
Another report had it that he kept a livery-stable in 
California. All agreed that he was no gentleman, and 
therefore that he could not have been a captain in the 
British army. He had a wife, a fine, buxom Scotch 
woman, very attractive and pleasant in her ways, but 
kept under by her husband, who seemed to recognize 
in every male visitor a possible rival. Whether the 
stories told about him reached Wadleigh’s ears or not 
I cannot say, but his arrogant and oppressive conduct 
soOn made him the most unpopular man in Yale. 
Whenever any of the Hill’s Bar roughs came to town, 
which was often, Wadleigh would don his trappings, 
buckle on a sword, knit his brows and strut through 
the street with a threatening air that was well calcu- 
lated to strike terror to the hearts of the timid, while 
in the ne’er-do-well’s minds he only excited a feeling 
of contempt. 

To give an idea of the sort of man he was: One 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 35 

night Nelson, Kurtz, Power, E. C. Johnson and my- 
self and about twenty others were asked to the Court 
House by Wadleigh to a reception. A nice little sup- 
per was served, and in the course of it Wadleigh got 
drunk. At an evil moment some one called on the 
Captain for a speech, Vv^hen to the amazement and 
alarm of his guests he suddenly sprang to his feet with 
a wild “Hoo-roo !” He then exclaimed in stentorian 
tones, “Me voice is in me sword,” and drawing that 
weapon he proceeded to cut, thrust and slash the air 
about him in a most dangerous manner. One of his 
sweeps came perilously near my head. I ducked to 
avoid the stroke, and ran for the door. The others 
followed in confusion and dismay, without hats, coats, 
canes, lanterns or goloshes. The snow was deep and 
as we plunged down the bank in our precipitous flight, 
the Captain fired volley after volley of his wild “hoo- 
roo!” and danced a war dance in front of his quarters, 
swinging his sword about and slashing at imaginary 
aerial foes. This added to our speed, and although the 
situation was so ludicrous that we screamed with 
laughter as we ran, it was thought wise to place as 
much space as possible between the Captain’s sword 
and ourselves. The next morning we went up in twos 
and threes and recovered our property. The Captain 
was not in sight, but Mrs. Wadleigh received us gra- 
ciously, “stood treat,” and apologized for “His Wor- 
ship,” as she always referred to him, by saying that his 
extraordinary antics were due to a sabre cut he had re- 
ceived on the head in the Crimea. 

The glee of the Hill’s Bar gang, who were not in- 
vited to the reception, and were at first inclined to be 
jealous of those who had been, was unbounded. They 
came up to town in a body and having got drunk their 
comments on the “swell” members of Yale society and 
their host and hostess were rich and rare and racy. 
In a few days Wadleigh again appeared on the street 


36 


The Mystic Spring, 


with his sword dangling at his side and his brow pre- 
sided over by the regulation official frown ; but no one 
trembled any more. He couldn’t have frightened a 
sick pup. One Hill's Bar man who addressed him as 
“Sergeant” was given ten minutes in which to get out 
of town. He didn’t go, but stood and laughed in the 
magistrate’s face. Another fellow bawled out to him 
as he passed a gambling house, “Say, Cap,, I see 
you’ve found your voice” — pointing to the sword. 

Wadleigh, who was greatly incensed, strutted on 
without reply, but he discussed with Kurtz, Nelson and 
myself the propriety of despatching a messenger to 
Victoria to ask Governor Douglas to send up a body 
of troops. 

Humiliating as the situation had become for Wad- 
leigh, and gross as were the insults offered him when- 
ever he appeared in public, there were worse in store. 

It appeared that when Dicks was Commissioner at 
Yale, Governor Douglas paid a visit to Fraser River 
and while at Hill’s Bar he was petitioned to appoint 
the only British subject on the Bar — a French-Canad- 
ian named Perrier — as police magistrate there. His 
limits were not defined, and so his warrants were 
served at Yale, although he always refused to recog- 
nize warrants issued by the magistrate of Yale on per- 
sons residing at Hill’s Bar. McGowan and his friends 
“put up a job” on Wadleigh. One of their friends had 
committed an assault and was confined in the Yale 
prison. A warrant for the man’s arrest had previously 
been issued by Perrier, but disregarded by Wadleigh, 
who insisted upon trying the culprit and sentencing 
him to jail for three months. Perrier immediately 
issued a warrant for Wadleigh’s arrest for contempt of 
court, and swore in McGowan, Bagley and twenty 
others as special constables, with orders to take the 
prisoner out of the jail and bring him and Wadleigh 
(the latter dead or alive) to Hill’s Bar. The posse. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 37 

heavily armed, came to Yale in canoes, surprised the 
jailer and locking him in one of the cells released the 
prisoner. They then seized Wadleigh, by virtue of 
Perrier’s warrant, and conducted him in triumph 
through the town to their canoes. The Yale magis- 
trate was frightened half to death, and his alarm was 
increased when he was told that he had been recog- 
nized as a member of the hated Vigilance Committee 
at San Francisco. Arrived at Hill’s Bar, Wadleigh 
was arraigned before Perrier. He was convicted of 
contempt, fined $20 and advised by his fellow-magis- 
trate to leave the Bar instantly, as a matter of pre- 
caution. The posse re-formed and conducting him 
back to the canoes landed him safely at Yale, firing 
their revolvers and rifles by way of a parting salute. 
On the return trip Wadleigh and his guard fraternized 
and agreed to bury the hatchet, all was to be forgiven 
and forgotten and the two elements — virtue and vice — 
were to live together in peace and goodwill forever 
afterward. 

It had been previously arranged by the American 
miners that a grand ball should be given on the 22nd 
of February, 1859, in honor of the birth of Washing- 
ton. Bennett’s gambling house, the largest building 
in the town, had been hired for the occasion, and an 
orchestra of five fiddlers was engaged. The night be- 
fore the ball was to be held Willis Bond’s partner, Har- 
rison, got into an altercation with a young man named 
Campbell, whose father was Attorney-General of 
Washington Territory, and shot and killed him in Ben- 
nett’s hall. Harrison was taken to Victoria and while 
awaiting trial escaped, and was never seen again. The 
body of the murdered man was laid away after a hur- 
ried inquest, and preparations for the dance went on. 
uninterrupted by the gruesome event of the preceding 
night. Kurtz, Nelson, Power, Johnson and myself 
were placed on the Ball Committee, cheek by jowl with 


The Mystic Spring, 


38 

McGowan, Bagley and many others. All the married 
ladies in the town were invited. Mr. and Mrs. Wad- 
leigh were also asked. This lady was of huge propor- 
tions. The bosom of her dress was cut very, very low 
and her arms were bare to the shoulders. She was 
what would have been called a fine-looking woman 
anywhere. She wore, as was the fashion in those days, 
enormous hoops. All the ladies wore hoops at that 
ball, and how in the world they contrived to make their 
way through the crowded hall and keep their skirts on 
will ever be a mystery to me. 

Until midnight all went well. The few ladies pres- 
ent had no lack of partners, while most of the men 
were forced to dance with each other. Supper having 
been announced it occurred to the committee to invite 
Judge McGowan to preside at the first, or ladies’ table. 
He consented, and he performed the duties with grace 
and gentlemanly courtesy — for he could be a gentleman 
when occasion required. Bagley, who laid claim to 
good looks, and was very much of a ladies’ man, was 
furious at the selection of McGowan to preside, and 
when the ladies had left the table, fired a most offensive 
epithet at the chairman. The latter, who had a plate of 
soup in his hand, brought it down with a resounding 
whack on Bagley’s head. Quick as thought Bagley, 
who also held a plate of soup in his hand, responded 
with a whack on McGowan’s head. The plates of 
heavy delf flew into pieces and streams of blood and 
hot soup, with an occasional length of macaroni, ran 
down the faces and necks of the combatants, saturat- 
ing their clothing. The greasy fluid penetrated to 
their skins and more deplorable looking spectacles than 
these two men, who suddenly stood in need of baths, 
it would be difficult to conjure up. The adherents of 
the men yelled with rage. Pistols were drawn and 
flourished and a scene of carnage seemed imminent for 
a few moments. Curses filled the air and the crowd in 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 39 

the hall soon became a surging mass of excited men 
and screaming women— the men apparently bent on 
taking each other’s lives. All but one of the ladies 
and the musicians fled the scene as quickly as they 
could get outside. The committee in their anxiety to 
prevent bloodshed, naturally turned to Wadleigh as 
the representative of authority. 

“Where’s the magistrate?” was asked by one of the 
peaceably inclined. 

“He was here a moment ago,” said another. 
“There’s his wife. Ask her.” 

The only woman who had not fled the scene was 
Mrs. Wadleigh. She stood, pale and trembling, in a 
corner of the room, apparently motionless from fear. 
Even the excited rowdies respected the presence of a 
lady and in their struggles left a space of several feet 
about her. 

“Madam,” said John Kurtz, “where’s your hus- 
band? In God’s name, tell me, or murder will be 
done.” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” replied Mrs. Wad- 
leigh, in a faltering voice. 

“Allow me,” said Kurtz, always polite and kind, “to 
escort you from this awful scene.” 

As he spoke he extended his arm and half drew, half 
led the almost fainting woman from the spot. As she 
moved away a pair of boots, then a pair of long legs 
and finally a long body arrayed in the full panoply of 
war came into view. They all belonged to Wadleigh, 
who, in a paroxysm of fear and laboring under a sus- 
picion that the row had been raised for the purpose of 
potting him, had hidden behind his wife’s ample hoop- 
skirt to get out of harm’s way ! 

The rage of the combatants was changed to mirth. 
I verily believe that the spectacle of the magistrate 
rising from the floor and hurrying from the room and 
out into the darkness, pursued by the hoots and laugh- 


40 


The Mystic Spring, 


ter of the crowd prevented a tragedy. The two lead* 
ers threatened to fight a duel over the affair of the 
soup, but they were laughed out of their wrath and 
nothing more was heard of a hostile meeting. 

Two days after the ball a stalwart young Irishman 
named Barney Rice entered Bennett’s saloon and 
called for a drink. When served he refused to pay 
and walked out. The barkeeper, one Foster, followed 
him and as the miner moved off shot him dead. The 
body fell on the snow in the street and lay there for 
some hours. Foster fled and was seen no more at 
Yale, although several years later he was recognized 
in Arizona. This dreadful murder was the capsheaf 
of the huge pile of iniquity which the roughs had been 
heaping up for many months, and while a Vigilance 
Committee was forming to take charge of the town 
and drive the evil-doers out, Lieut.-Governor Moody, 
Chief Justice Begbie, and Attorney-General Cary, who 
had been quietly summoned from Victoria by Wad- 
leigh, arrived on the scene. They were accompanied 
by a detachment of sappers and miners, and I never 
felt happier in my life than when very early one morn- 
ing I saw the redcoats trekking along on the opposite 
side of the river toward the ferry crossing. 

Judge Begbie proceeded to open court in Bennett’s 
Flail, some of the tables having been cleared away to 
make room for His Lordship. The table at which the 
Judge sat had the night before held a faro bank, and 
the table assigned to the Attorney-General and Col 
Moody was commonly used for chuck-a-luck by a no- 
torious gambler named Cherokee Bill. 

* Upon it the body of Campbell had been prepared for 
burial the day before. 

Summonses had been issued for McGowan, Bagley, 
and other offenders and they appeared in court. Their 
defence was that they were the objects of persecution 
by Wadleigh and other officials, that they had been 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 


41 


driven from their own land and had come to this 
country to reside as peaceable citizens. Judge Begbie 
acted with great discretion, and after a short address 
he dismissed all the prisoners with an expression of 
sympathy with their misfortune and confidence in 
their promise to be good. Wadleigh was dismissed 
and went away and, Hill’s Bar having been worked 
out, the rough element left the river and never came 
back. No one visiting Yale at this time would imagine 
that it was ever the scene of stormy events or the seat 
of a large and busy population. It is a good specimen 
of a deserted village, with its empty houses and its 
silent streets, and yet time was when it was the busiest 
town in the colony of British Columbia. “So passes 
away earthly glory.” 

Of the multitude I met at Yale few remain. It is 
appalling to think of the ravages death has made in 
the ranks of the hardy young men who sought for 
gold among the sands of Fraser River. I shall sketch 
the career of only a few. 

Hugh Nelson caught the Golden Butterfly, and after 
leaving Yale became a member of the Legislative 
Council of British Columbia; next he was made a 
Senator of the Dominion, and then Lieutenant-Gov- 
ernor, discharging all his duties with honor and credit 
to himself and advantage to the country. At Ottawa 
he married Miss Stanton, a lady who brought to Gov- 
ernment House a charming personality and a winsome 
manner, which captivated all who were so fortunate 
as to be entertained there. When his term of office 
was ended Mr. Nelson, whose health was shattered, 
with Mrs. Nelson, went to England, and while on a 
visit to Ditchley Park, in Oxfordshire, the seat of Lord 
Dillon, his brother-in-law, he died and was laid to rest 
in the family mausoleum of that nobleman. It is re- 
corded that Queen Elizabeth visited Ditchley, in 1592, 
and her successor, King James I., also ^a^d the^e. 


42 


The Mystic Spring, 


The heads of several red deer shot by that monarch 
and his eldest son, Henry, Prince of Wales, during 
their visits in 1608 and 1610, adorn the walls of Lord 
Dillon’s billiard-room. Even in death Mr. Nelson’s 
Butterfly did not desert him. 

John Kurtz captured the Golden Butterfly at Yale 
and Cariboo. Took it to Nevada, whence it flew away, 
and he never found it again. He died in Victoria 
twelve years ago. His was a noble character. He 
loved his fellow man. His heart overflowed with the 
milk of human kindness, and his last dollar was ever 
at the call of charity. Where many of us had a dozen 
faults he had but one; and that fault dragged him to 
an untimely grave, wept over and regretted by those 
who had enjoyed his friendship, and by those who had 
been the recipients of his bounty. I recall that on the 
day of his funeral, and while his body lay in state in 
Pioneer Hall, a poor widow woman, worn, and wasted 
by illness and the pinching of poverty, entered the 
room, and after gazing on the placid features for a 
few moments, timidly laid a little bunch of violets on 
the coffin-lid, and withdrew, weeping silently. It was 
not much, but it was all she had — the widow’s mite — 
a tribute to the goodness of the man by whose hand 
she and her little ones had been fed and clothed. 
There is room in the world for a few more men like 
John Kurtz. 

Wm. Power caught his Butterfly at Yale, and car- 
ried it with him to New York and South America, 
where it escaped. He returned to British Columbia 
in 1881 and found his Butterfly again on the townsite 
of Vancouver. Retiring with an ample fortune he 
died in an Eastern city several years ago. Of his 
amiable wife, it should be stated that she recently died 
in New York City. 

I brought my Butterfly to Victoria, and for many 
years it was my good genius. I cherished and nour- 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 


43 


ished it with the care and attention of a lover. It 
charmed me with its brilliant colors and its gossamer 
wings. My close companion by day, at night I locked 
it securely in a vault. Everything I touched pros- 
pered — wealth, position, influence, friends, all were at 
my command. It just seemed as if there was nothing 
beyond my reach, and I revelled in my good fortune. 
But one day a sad thing happened. My close com- 
panion, my good genius, as I opened the vault flew out 
into the open air. I followed, hoping to recover it. It 
went up and up until it was almost lost to view. Then 
it came down and down and down, describing grace- 
ful circles as it descended, and alighted upon the tram- 
way track on Government Street. I sprang forward 
to grasp it, but a street car rolled over the spot, and my 
Golden Butterfly must have been smashed to an unrec- 
ognizable mass, for I saw it no more, nor has any trace 
of it been since discovered, so far as I know. 


“SEEING THE ELEPHANT.” 

“Thus let me lie, unseen, unknown. 

Thus unlamented let me die ; 

Steal from the world, and not a stone 
Tell where I lie.” — Pope. 

It was at the close of a beautiful day in the month 
of July, 1858, when, having partaken of a sumptuous 
meal of pork and beans, and washed it down with a 
cup of English breakfast tea, H. B. Co.’s brand, that 
I lighted a pipe (I was a heavy smoker in those days) 
and strolled along the natural terrace or bench that 
overlooks Fraser River at Yale. The water, which 
had been unusually high, was now subsiding, and the 
bar in front of the town, where hundreds of busy 


44 


The Mystic Spring, 


workers, when the water was at a low stage, were en- 
gaged in washing the gravel with rocker and sluice, 
in the hope of extracting the tiny specks of gold that 
were believed to be there, was again coming into view. 
I strolled along, enjoying the cool evening breeze 
which swept down the mountain side. The current 
was swift, and to relieve the tedium of my lonely 
walk I began to count the uprooted monarchs of the 
forest as they swept by. Next I thought of home and 
all of its delights and endearments which I, a mere lad, 
had left behind me when I went to California. I re- 
called the friends I had met and the many pleasant 
events which made life joyous at San Francisco — the 
theatres, the balls, the parties, and the various excit- 
ing incidents that attached to “life in a boarding 
house,” of which I had more than one man’s share. It 
would be useless to deny, as Tom Moore would say, 
that as fond mem’ry brought the light of other days 
around me, a feeling of homesickness swept over me, 
and I heartily wished myself back again amidst the 
bright scenes and companions of my youth. My spir- 
its continued to droop, the melancholy roar of the 
river as it lapped the huge boulders and the gathering 
darkness adding to the sombre hue of my mind and 
deepening my dejection. What might have happened 
had my thoughts led me further on it is impossible to 
say, but when a cheery voice in a rich Irish brogue 
broke the stillness with, “Good evening, sir; I hope 
you are enjoying your walk,” the face I turned in the 
direction of the voice must have borne a stamp of in- 
tense unhappiness. My interlocutor was a large, full- 
bearded man of about forty-five years. He was very 
neatly dressed in some black stuff, wore a full grown 
beard, and was very stout. In his hand he carried a 
heavy walking-stick. 

“Thank you,” I replied, “but I am not enjoying my 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 45 

walk a bit. I was just wishing myself well out of the 
place.” 

“Tut, tut,” replied the man, “you are suffering from 
nostalgia. Come along with me, my lad, and Fll give 
you something that’ll drive dull care away.” 

Before I could utter a word of remonstrance he had 
linked an arm in one of mine and led me off to 
a little cabin or shack that stood not far from the trail 
on which I had been pursuing my walk. There, hav- 
ing lighted a candle, he produced a bottle of brandy 
and a pitcher of water, and insisted on my joining in 
a glass. He soon became very communicative, and 
after telling me that his name was William Riley, a 
Trinity College man and a barrister, who had passed 
several yiears in Australia, and having been attracted 
to Fraser River by the reported gold finds on the bars, 
had decided to try his fortune there. He had also 
written a book on Australian gold mining adventures, 
which had been printed in London with the title of 
“Seeing the Elephant,” the title I have adopted for the 
heading of this tale. On the occasion of our first inter- 
view it did not strike me that Mr. Riley was of a high 
order of intellect, and this opinion was not changed 
as our acquaintance grew. But he had a fund of 
anecdote and could tell a good story, of which I was 
and still am passionately fond. He knew a great many 
prominent men who had emigrated to Australia, and 
was a great admirer of Robert Lowe (“Bob Logic”), 
afterward Lord Sherbrooke, who acquired in Aus- 
tralia a vast fortune by the practice of law and land 
investments, and who, having returned to England and 
secured a seat in Parliament, was just then attracting 
wide attention by his able speeches and his logical 
utterances. He mentioned the names of many other 
young men in colonial politics who afterwards rose to 
great distinction. Some of these men he admired, 
others he detested, for it must be admitted that he 


46 


The Mystic Spring, 


was a bit of a cynic, and while he praised a few he 
was fierce in his denunciation of the many. 

“But,” he said, “there is one man out there for 
whom I predict a great future if he have but a chance. 
Unfortunately he is a younger son, and, still more un- 
fortunately, he has quarrelled with his father and his 
elder brother, so he has not the half a chance neces- 
sary for success. Although he is the son of a marquis 
who has vast entailed estates and a heavy rental, he 
has cut loose from home influence, lives in a cabin 
and works a mining claim near Ballarat. He has great 
ability. An evening passed in his company is a treat 
indeed. His days are devoted to gold-washing, like 
any other miner, and his evenings to the study of 
political problems. For some time I did not know his 
name or connections, but when I found them out I was 
more than surprised.” 

“What is his name?” I asked. 

“Lord Robert Cecil,” Riley replied. “He is the 
second son of the Marquis of Salisbury. His brother, 
the heir to the title and estates, is Lord Cranborne.” 

Little did either Riley or I imagine at that moment 
that before many years had fled the elder brother 
would have died and the younger son — the whilom 
gold miner at Ballarat — would be summoned home to 
make his peace with his father and assume the title 
of Lord Cranborne, or that on the death of his father 
he should first become Marquis of Salisbury, and then 
Great Britain’s greatest War Secretary, dying only a 
few months ago, full of years and honors, after having 
devoted a third of his life to the service of his sover- 
eign and country, Riley was right. His Australian 
friend justified his prediction. 

Before leaving my new-found friend lent me a copy 
of his Australian work. I found it very interesting, 
but I can only recall one incident that is worthy of 
narration here. It was the story of a party of young 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 47 

English gentlemen who had gone to the Australian 
diggings and invested their means in a claim. They 
erected a windlass and proceeded to sink a shaft to 
bedrock. Day after day they toiled faithfully, taking 
turns in going down the shaft and in working the 
windlass. One day it came the turn of a young fellow 
named Murray to descend. He went down full of 
hope and courage, and sent up bucket after bucket of 
dirt to his mates on the surface. The shaft was now 
down about one hundred feet, and must soon be “bot- 
tomed.” Towards evening the customary signal to 
hoist away was given. The men on top found the 
load unusually heavy, and one remarked to the other, 
“By Jove, Murray must be sending up a bucketful of 
gold.” 

Presently, when the “load” reached the top it proved 
to be the dead body of Murray. He had reached bed- 
rock and finding nothing there placed the end of the 
rope about his neck and his companions had unwit- 
tingly strangled him while hoisting what they supposed 
to be a bucket of gold from the depths. 

Here I may mention an extraordinary tragedy, 
somewhat similar in its outcome, that occurred in Vic- 
toria less than twenty years ago. One dark winter’s 
evening a cry of “Man overboard!” rose from one of 
the wharves on the city front. Those who hurried to 
the spot saw the dim outline of a man in the water 
clinging to one of the piles and lustily shouting for aid. 
A ladder was suggested, but none was handy. Then 
a sailor came with a rope, and, putting a running noose 
in it, lowered it down to the man, who still held on to 
the pile and never ceased to appeal for help. 

“Put the noose over your shoulders and under your 
arm,” shouted the sailorman. 

“Aye, aye, sir,” came back from the water. 

“Are you ready ?” was next asked. 

“All ready — pull away,” came back the answer. 


48 


The Mystic Spring, 


Willing hands grasped the rope, and the man was 
quickly raised to the surface; but instead of a living 
being the noose held a corpse. The man had placed 
the rope about his neck instead of under his armpits. 
An examination showed that his Adam’s apple had 
burst, and he died on the way between the water and 
the surface of the dock. If it was a mistake it was a 
serious one, for it cost him his life. If it was a suicide 
the man in Australia was entitled to the patent for 
originality. 

After our first encounter Mr. Riley and I often took 
long walks along the bench and discussed various 
matters, mostly pertaining to the government of the 
country, which was then under Hudson’s Bay rule. 
Riley I found intensely radical, but thoroughly loyal 
to Queen and country. At one time, he said, he felt 
inclined to join the Smith O’Brien rebellion, but good 
counsels prevailed and he remained true to the crown. 

About this time William Ballou, who maintained an 
express line between Victoria and Yale, moved his safe 
into my place of business, and I consented to act as his 
agent until other arrangements could be made. As 
there was but an indifferent postal delivery, nearly all 
the letters and all the treasure were carried by Ballou. 
One morning a tall, dissipated-looking woman, very 
plainly draped, entered the place and enquired if there 
were any letters for Johanna Maguire. The clerk ex- 
amined the “M” pigeon-hole, and handed her a letter. 
He told me afterwards that it bore the Dublin post- 
mark. She opened the letter, and, after reading it, 
asked me if I would change a £5 Bank of England 
note. I referred her to the Gold Commissioner, and 
she left the place. After that, nearly every week the 
woman applied at the office for a letter addressed as 
before. Sometimes she was rewarded with a missive, 
but oftener there was nothing for her. However, the 
letters she did receive always contained a £5 note. 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 49 

which she hurriedly exchanged at the Gold Commis- 
sioner’s and hastened back to her home at the upper 
end of the village. 

The woman always spoke with a broad Irish accent, 
and there was nothing about her language and appear- 
ance to indicate that she belonged to other than the 
peasant or uneducated class. Sometimes she would 
be in a quarrelsome mood ; then she would “swear like 
a trooper” on the street, and there were stories told of 
her having on two occasions, in the midst of wild 
orgies, worn out a chair on the heads and bodies of 
some miners who had misbehaved themselves while in 
her house. She was habitually profane, and it seemed 
to me that she must have sprung from the lowest of 
the low. Had I been asked to point out a thoroughly 
depraved and worthless person I should have indi- 
cated the Maguire woman. Such characters bob up 
in every new mining camp, but before the civilizing 
influence of respectable women, families and churches 
they disappear. Rossland was full of them a few 
years ago. 

Dr. Fifer (whose sad fate I have referred to in 
another sketch) asked me one evening to accompany 
him to a little cabin just back of the town. He said 
there was a girl of about 14 there who had been 
stricken with pneumonia, and of whose recovery he 
was very doubtful. We went to the shack. At the 
door we met the girl’s father. His name was Durant, 
or Durand, or some such name, and he was very much 
under the influence of liquor. 

“Doctor,” he began, “Allie is dyin’, shore. There 
ain’t no hope for her,” and he began to sob. 

“Nonsense,” said the doctor, “she’ll be all right in 
a few days. All you’ve got to do is to leave her alone 
and not bother or frighten her.” 

The man put his face in his hands and turned away. 
There was only one room in the house — that is, there 


The Mystic Spring, 


SO 

was a kitchen, or living room, divided in the middle by 
a piece of unbleached muslin that stretched from side 
to side of the shack. Behind this curtain the stricken 
girl lay. 

As the good doctor was about to draw back the cur- 
tain his hand was arrested by the sound of a person 
praying. In a soft, sweet woman’s voice the Lord’s 
Prayer was recited, and a feeble, stammering voice 
seemed to respond. Then the woman’s voice gently 
said: “Dearie, say this after me: T know that my 
Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand in the latter 
day upon the earth.’ ” 

Then there followed a sound as of a woman weep- 
ing, in the midst of which Dr. Fifer parted the muslin 
and entered. 

“Ah, docthor, sure I’m glad ye’ve came. The pore 
child is very sick, indade. Sure, I think she’ll not be 
long wid us.” It was Johanna Maguire’s voice. 

“Where’s the other woman who was here — the 
woman who prayed? Tell me, Johanna, where is she?” 

“Faith,” replied Johanna, for she it was, “she 
hopped out of the windey as ye come in.” 

“Nonsense! where is she?” 

“Go find her,” replied the woman with a savage 
oath, as she flung past the doctor and ran from the 
room and house. 

The girl was very low indeed; but some of the 
ladies became interested in her and nursed her back 
to health, and in the course of two or three weeks she 
was able to travel down the river in a canoe with her 
father, and I saw her no more. 

Johanna continued her weekly calls for letters, and 
was both abusive and profane when she found none. 

About three weeks after the departure of the girl 
Riley and I were taking our customary evening walk. 
The day had been warm. There was a slight rise in 
the river, and numerous floating trees began to make 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 51 

their appearance. The sun was just sinking behind 
the high hills back of Yale, and the chill evening breeze 
had come up when we heard a scream — a woman’s 
scream, as if the utterer was in mortal agony or fear. 
We turned and saw Johanna Maguire running along 
the trail towards us. At every step she uttered a wild 
shriek and beat the air and her breast alternately with 
her hands. As she drew nearer she pointed with one 
hand toward the river and screamed rather than 
spoke: 

“There is a man afloat on a tree. Save him! Get 
a boat! Get a boat!” 

I looked towards the boiling, surging stream, and 
saw a man seated on the trunk of a huge tree, waving 
his arms and apparently shouting for aid. I could not 
hear his voice above the raging of the wild torrent, 
but I saw his head and the upper part of his body, his 
arms waving in a frantic appeal for assistance. Riley 
saw him, too. We at once ran down to the beach, 
shouting the alarm as we went. Some men manned 
a boat and put off to intercept the tree. But the night 
closes in quickly at Yale, encircled as it is by high 
mountains, and darkness intervened before any intelli- 
gent effort could be made to save the man, and he must 
have passed from earth to eternity at the first riffle be- 
low Yale, for tree and man had swept out of sight be- 
fore the boat got well under way. 

Johanna, who was still greatly excited, continued 
her lamentations, but what struck us all as peculiar 
was that in her excitement she spoke the most perfect 
English. There was not a trace of the brogue, and 
her language gave every evidence of good breeding. 
As her excitement wore off she seemed to recollect 
herself, and presently she lapsed into the brogue and 
with an oath in condemnation of the fruitless effort to 
save, she passed up the face of the bench and disap- 
peared. 


52 


The Mystic Spring, 


“Riley,” said I, as we walked home, “that woman 
wears a mask. She is not what she wants us to be- 
lieve she is.” I told him of the incident at the sick 
girl’s bedside and the mysterious woman’s gentle voice 
from the inner room that recited the prayer. He 
agreed with me that there was a mystery about Jo- 
hanna that needed an explanation. 

The summer passed away, and winter with its frost 
and snow and short days settled down on the little 
town. Soon after the dawn of the New Year (1859) 
Chief Justice Begbie and suite arrived to try the Hill’s 
Bar rioters. I have already told of how these cases 
were disposed of. Now, if Riley had applied for the 
position of Chief Justice and failed to get it I never 
knew, but he had imbibed a most intense dislike for 
the new judge. He seemed to maintain a regular cor- 
respondence with some official at Downing Street, and 
the amount of Imperial political gossip he retailed was 
astounding. 

“Begbie,” said Kelly one night, “never held a brief 
in his life. He was a reporter on the Lazv Times, and 
a good one, too. He laid himself out to please the 
Lord Chancellor by reporting all his decisions and 
comments in extenso and with accuracy. One day 
the Lord Chancellor asked, ‘Who is the reporter who 
so faithfully does my remarks?’ He was told. An 
acquaintance sprang up between the two, and when 
the British Columbia appointment came on the tapis 
Begbie’s name was pressed upon the Lord Chancellor, 
and he carried olf the prize.” 

In the first case that Riley had before the Chief 
Justice there was a clash. It was a suit for trespass. I 
forget the point on which they differed, but the Chief 
Justice threw out the case and merry war was declared 
by Riley. There was constant friction. The Chief 
Justice was supreme. There was no appeal from his 
decisions, and his word was law. Whenever Riley 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 53 

rose to address the bench the impatienec of the Judge 
was marked and his interruptions were constant. 
Riley’s wrath knew no bounds, and at last he did or 
said something which exasperated the Judge, who 
roared at him like a hungry lion and tore him to pieces 
with his tongue, Riley was struck from the rolls of 
the mainland courts, as was Mr. McCreight (after- 
wards a justice of the Supreme Court) a few years 
later, and Mr. Rocke Robertson, also a judge later on, 
who espoused McCreight’s cause, was similarly treated 
at his own request. It was the arbitrary conduct of 
the Chief Justice that induced the Legislature, after 
Confederation, to remove from the judges the power 
to strike lawyers from the rolls and placed it in the 
hands of the benchers. There are many who are of 
opinion that under the altered conditions the power 
should go back to the judges. 

At Williams Lake, in 1862, an extraordinary thing 
happened. A man named Gilchrist, a politician from 
California, shot at one man and killed another. He 
was tried before the Chief Justice, convicted of man- 
slaughter, and sentenced to prison for life. Several 
other malefactors were convicted at the same assizes. 
A posse of special constables was sworn in to convey 
the convict to Victoria for incarceration. The friends 
of Gilchrist armed themselves and threatened to lib- 
erate him on the way down country. Addressing the 
posse, the Chief Justice said : “If you are attacked you 
will shoot the prisoners at once.” 

This instruction had the desired effect. No rescue 
was attempted. But the Chief Justice was perhaps 
unaware that a similar instruction to constables in Ire- 
land one hundred years ago cost a committing judge 
his life. The guard having been instructed to kill two 
prisoners if a rescue were attempted, upon being at- 
tacked slew them off-hand. The judge was tried, con- 


54 


The Mystic Spring, 


victed, and hanged for murder. The Chief Justice 
was a brave and able man, but he had more power than 
should be entrusted to one pair of hands. For years 
he held in his grasp the issues of life and death, and 
no person short of the Queen had a check upon him. 
Small wonder that, by nature imperious and forceful, 
he grew arbitrary, and that in his anxiety to do right 
he often did wrong, and would never acknowledge an 
error. One of the present justices, although a mem- 
ber of the Canadian bar and an excellent lawyer, was 
prevented for some time from practising before the 
courts for the sole reason that he had not been admit- 
ted in the Old Country. 

The Chief Justice had a high sense of duty, and it 
was that sense which carried him to extremes on many 
occasions. Instance the case of Regina v. Lavin, tried 
at the Victoria Assizes some twenty-five years ago. 
Lavin was a deserter from the American Army. He 
ran a bar on Johnson Street. One night a man named 
Johnstone Robertson, who had at one time been a 
wealthy contractor, entered the bar and got into an 
altercation with Lavin. He was thrown to the floor, 
and Lavin, seizing him by the ears, actually pounded 
Robertson’s head against the floor until he fractured 
his skull. Robertson was taken to his room, where he 
shortly died. Lavin was tried at the next assizes be- 
fore the Chief Justice on an indictment for murder. 
The Chief Justice took strong grounds against the 
prisoner. Somehow or another the Chief Justice had 
got it into his head that the murdered man was struck 
on the head with a sandbag, which caused his death. 
He charged strongly in favor of a capital conviction. 
The jury, to the astonishment of court and spectators, 
returned a verdict of “Not guilty.” 

The Chief Justice was speechless with rage. His 
face grew red and pale by turns. He rose in his chair 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 55 

as if to rush from the room, and made no effort to 
conceal his feelings. When he had recovered suffi- 
ciently to speak, he shouted : 

“Is that your verdict, gentlemen ?” 

“Yes, my lord,” replied the foreman. 

“So say you all?” 

“So say we all.” 

The Judge smote the desk with his clenched hand, 
and shouted: 

“Remember, gentlemen, that is your verdict, not 
mine. You may go — you may go !” Then turning to 
Lavin: “You are discharged, prisoner. You are dis- 
charged. Get out of my sight as quickly as you can, 
or I will not be responsible for what I may do or say.” 

As Lavin was scuttling from the dock the Chief 
Justice thundered at him in tones that sounded more 
like the growl of a wild animal than the voice of a 
human being: 

“Stay, you — you miscreant! My advice to you is 
that you get a sandbag and sandbag that jury!” 

There were many scandalous reasons assigned for 
the acquittal. It was asserted that a notorious woman 
from Portland was married to Lavin, and that she 
came to Victoria and spent money freely to clear her 
husband. John George Taylor, who was one of the 
jurymen, subsequently told me that he voted for an 
acquittal for two reasons — first, because the Chief 
Justice rested his charge on a belief of his own crea- 
tion that a sandbag had been used, when the evidence 
pointed to the fact that the man’s brains were beaten 
out on the floor; and, second, because, although the 
man should have been convicted of manslaughter, the 
jury were afraid that, had that verdict been returned, 
the Chief Justice would have given him a life sentence, 
which they did not think he deserved, because Robert- 
son was the aggressor and there was no. evidence of 
premeditation. 


5 ^ 


The Mystic Spring, 


But I have wandered away from my Yale acquain- 
tance, and after one more anecdote of the Chief Justice 
shall find my way back to the right trail. Some fifteen 
years ago Rev. J. E. Starr was pastor of the Metropoli- 
tan Methodist Church at Victoria. He was called to 
give evidence in some case before the Chief Justice, 
and, being a tall man and the witness box being very 
low, he sprawled over the side in a very awkward man- 
ner. The Chief Justice at last exclaimed: 

“Stand up, sir! You look like a sausage-skin filled 
with water.” 

The insult was not resented at the time, but every- 
one predicted and bets were made that on the follow- 
ing Sunday Mr. Starr would deliver a sermon that 
would make the Chief Justice’s punishment fit his 
crime. On Sunday morning the pastor of the St. An- 
drew’s Presbyterian Church delivered a powerful ser- 
mon in denunciation of the Chief Justice’s remark, 
charging that he had fired his insult from a porthole 
of the Coward’s Castle, knowing well that he could not 
be replied to there. 

On Sunday evening everyone flocked to Mr. Starr’s 
church. The edifice was densely packed, and the ser- 
mon was awaited with manifestations of unfeigned in- 
terest. The clergyman gave out the text, and then 
proceeded to deliver a very clear and able discourse, 
in which he touched upon nearly every subject except 
the court incident. Not a word was uttered about the 
sausage or the water. But when the closing prayer 
was offered, Mr. Starr asked a blessing on everything 
that he could think of, and concluded thus: “And, 
finally, God bless those who have lost their bets this 
night. Amen.” 

Early in the year i860 I left Yale to accept a posi- 
tion on the staff of the Colonist at Victoria. It was 
then printed three times a week, and the work not be- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 57^ 

ing arduous I had ample time on my hands to indulge 
my propensity for taking notes of men and things for 
use in after life. One day I received a call from Mr. 
Riley. He informed me that the tyranny of “that 
man Begbie” had driven him from the Mainland, and 
that unless he could get into practice here he should 
return to England, and as he had ample means he 
•would not lose any more time in exploiting new coun- 
tries. He added that he had complained of his treat- 
ment to the British Government, and would await an 
answer. I think this man with a grievance remained 
here for a year before finally taking his departure. 

One morning in the summer of 1861 my duties 
called me to the Police Court, then presided over by 
the late A, F. Pemberton. To my surprise, who should 
I see seated on the bench usually allotted to witnesses 
but Johanna Maguire. She was in a fearful state. 
Her face was battered and bruised, her eyes were 
blackened, and she was almost doubled up with bodily 
stiffness. A bloody rag was tied about the lower part 
of her face, and a more deplorable spectacle it would 
be hard to imagine. In the prisoner’s dock stood an- 
other former acquaintance, “Ned” Whitney. When I 
knew him at San Francisco he was a fine, steady young 
fellow, a graduate of one of the great American col- 
leges, sang in one of the church choirs, and was as 
regular and reliable as a good watch. When he joined 
the rush to Fraser River he fell in with the Hill’s Bar 
crowd and they spoiled him, as they spoiled every- 
thing and everyone with whom they came in contact. 

’ Whitney, I learned, had accompanied Johanna to Vic- 
toria, and they occupied a small cabin on Humboldt 
Street, where both got drunk, and after a wordy alter- 
cation he beat and blackened his consort until she be- 
came the spectacle I have described. As the court 
had not yet assembled, I entered into conversation 
with the woman, who told me that she did not wish to 


The Mystic Spring. 


58 

prosecute Whitney. Mr. Riley, I found, had been en- 
gaged for the defence. The woman gave evidence in 
the prisoner’s behalf, saying that she was alone to 
blame, and he was let off with a light fine, which the 
woman paid. 

In the evening I received a note in a neat female 
hand asking me to inquire for Mrs. Maguire at a small 
house on Humboldt Street, near the foot of Douglas. 
I went there and found the woman alone and in a high 
fever. Among other injuries, three ribs had been 
fractured. A search was made for Whitney, but he 
had left the country and was never captured. The 
woman, thinking she was about to die, sent for Riley, 
and, as her legal adviser, confided to him her early 
history. Riley, of course, never repeated what she 
told him. All he would say was that in early life she 
was a welcome visitor at Dublin Castle, and that she 
was connected with one of the highest families in Dub- 
lin, a family with an historical record and a lineage 
that dated back several centuries. He also told me 
her brogue and rude manners were assumed to con- 
ceal her identity, and that she was really a cultivated 
woman who had had superior advantages in youth. 
Once, she told him, she met Gold Commissioner Ball 
face to face and was fearful lest he should recognize 
her as an early friend in Dublin Society; but he did 
not, and she then became convinced that her disguise 
was impenetrable, and continued it. She confided to 
Riley a mass of correspondence and some jewelry of 
antique design, and directed that in case of her death 
they should be sent to a given address in Dublin. When 
she had sufficiently recovered she sailed for San Fran- 
cisco, and I never heard what became of her. 

Of Riley it remains to be written that, failing to get 
justice or recognition of his grievance, he sailed for 
England early in 1862. Before leaving he had a diffi- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 59 

culty with R. W. Torrens, then clerk of the Vancouver 
Assembly, and caned him. Torrens challenged him, 
and the police got wind of the affair. The matter was 
ventilated in the Police Court. It appears that Tor- 
rens had made slighting remarks about a lady, the wife 
of a banker. Riley, much to his discredit, told the 
husband, and when confronted with the charge, Tor- 
rens siad Riley lied. Hence the assault. The pair 
were put under bonds to keep the peace towards each 
other — that is, not to fight a duel — and the matter 
ended there. 

On reaching Europe, Riley, still bent on “Seeing the 
Elephant,” took up his residence at Paris, and there 
became enamored of a beautiful blonde with a wonder- 
ful head of long yellow hair that reached to her heels, 
and with no morals worth speaking of. In his infatu- 
ation he proposed matrimony to the woman and, after 
settling a round sum in cash upon her, he was ac- 
cepted and they were married. As the couple were 
entering a carriage at the door of the church to drive 
to their rooms a process-server tapped the bridegroom 
on the shoulder and handed him a court paper, and he 
was placed under arrest for debt — his wife’s debts, 
contracted before marriage! Of course, he was furi- 
ous, but he was taken to the debtors’ prison and in- 
carcerated, his bride driving away in the carriage her 
husband had hired to take them to the nuptial cham- 
ber. They never met again. Riley, with the obdurate- 
ness of a true Briton, wrote to the Times, and ap- 
pealed to the British ambassador in Paris and to the 
British Government. He was informed that he must 
discharge the liabilities, which were enormous. He 
refused to do so, and as all his property was located 
in England and Ireland, it could not be touched. The 
artful woman had apparently arranged to have her 
husband arrested immediately after the marriage, so 
that she might make off with another of her admirers 


6o 


The Mystic Spring, 


and the money Riley had given her. I never heard 
what became of Riley. I fear he died in prison. If 
alive now he would be well over 90 years of age, but 
his wife had’ a terrible end. She was strangled in the 
Bois de Boulogne by a female companion for the 
money and jewels she had on her person. The body 
was found by the police, and upon examination the 
glorious head of yellow hair which had attracted my 
former Yale friend and captivated many other human 
moths was found to be a wig, so cleverly arranged as 
to defy even a close scrutiny. The story of Riley’s 
plight and his wife’s murder was narrated in the Eng- 
lish papers in 1865. 


A FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE. 

“Alas, how many years and hours have pass’d 
Since human forms have round this table sate. 

Or lamp, or taper, on its surface gleamed ! 

Methinks I hear the sound of time long pass’d 
Still murmuring o’er us, in the lofty void 
Of these dark arches, like the ling’ring voices 
Of those who long within their graves have slept.” 

— “Orra: a Tragedy.” 

In the month of August, 1858, there came to Yale 
a young man and his wife. The couple were gen- 
teel-looking, had evidently been accustomed to good 
society and spoke like people of culture, and, what was 
better than all in some eyes, they had much money. 
They had with them a girl of about seven — sweet, 
pretty and petite, a perfect fairy, with lovely blue eyes 
and light hair, and such winsome ways! The mother 
was a most engaging conversationalist. She had trav- 
elled in Europe with her father and mother and had a 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 6i 

wealth of Old Country anecdote and scenery to tell 
and describe. They gave the name of Gregory, and 
claimed to have come from a small city in the interior 
of New York State. Gregory bought a cabin on the 
second flat back of Yale which belonged to Mr. 
McRoberts, a Scotch gentleman, who, with his wife, 
occupied a larger and better cottage near the Court 
House. The Gregorys furnished their home neatly 
and comfortably with such articles as they were able 
to procure at the Hudson’s Bay store, then managed 
by Mr. Allard, chief trader. He was a French-Ca- 
nadian and one of the best friends I ever had. John 
Kurtz, Hugh Nelson, Walter Gladwin and myself, all 
former San Franciscans, had naturally crystallized and 
formed a little club or set of our own, to which we 
admitted Mr. Riley, the lawyer from Australia, and 
a few other kindred spirits. 

The Gregorys, when they first came to the camp, 
were reserved and “offish” in manner, and seemed to 
shrink from observation. I became acquainted with 
them in rather an odd manner. The water supply of 
the inhabitants was conveyed from the river to the 
houses and stores in buckets. The Indians were found 
very useful as water-carriers, and every morning and 
evening a bucket-brigade of natives was engaged in 
packing water from the river to the people who lived 
on the benches. One morning, very early, I was busy 
outside my place when I saw Mrs. Gregory, in a loose 
wrapper and without her crinoline, carrying a huge 
pitcher in her hands, pass down towards the river 
brink. With no object save the gratification of a nat- 
ural interest which a pretty woman “in her figure” 
arouses in a young fellow just out of his teens, I 
watched her as she carefully picked her way over and 
around the boulders on the bar, and when she had filled 
the pitcher and started back I still kept her in view. 
Now, I would gladly have asked her permission to get 


62 


The Mystic Spring, 


the water for her, but as we were not acquainted I 
feared that the offer might be regarded as an imperti- 
nence. The lady was threading her way along the 
rock-beset path when suddenly her foot slipped and 
down she went on her knees, the pitcher breaking and 
the water splashing over her. I ran into the tent and, 
seizing a towel and a bucket, flew down the trail to 
where the lady, who had risen to her feet, stood 
drenched and looking very woebegone as she gazed at 
the wreck of the pitcher and ruefully surveyed her 
drenched form. I handed her the towel as I passed, 
and running on to the river filled the bucket. When 
I returned she had used the towel to some effect, but 
the dress of thin material, wet through and through, 
clung closely to and set off her shapely figure. She 
blushed like a red, red rose, and as I approached she 
stammered forth a few words of thankfulness, adding, 
“What shall I do for some water ? Charley is too sick 
to come himself for it, and the Indian carrier did not 
call last night.” 

“Why,” I said, “I filled this bucket for you, and if 
you will permit me and will walk behind me (I did not 
think she would be pleased, with the wet dress hang- 
ing closely to her form, to walk in front) I will carry 
it to your house.” 

“Oh ! thank you,” she said ; “I am more than obliged 
for your kindness.” 

At the time of which I write a lady who should 
have appeared in public in a habit that fitted closely to 
her figure and a shirt waist would have been looked 
upon with suspicion, at least. The aim of fashion was 
to hide as much of the female “form divine” as pos- 
sible. The women of that period actually walked about 
in wire cages, which hung suspended from their waists 
and concealed the outlines of their bodies and limbs. 
Remove the pan of a circular birdcage and retain the 
wire part and you will have a very fair idea of the 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 63 

article our mothers and sweethearts moved about in 
1858. To-day the object would seem to be to show as 
much of the figure as possible by drawing the skirts 
closely about the hips and wearing a waist or short 
jacket. I never took kindly to the crinoline — you had 
to take too much on trust. Give me the close-fitting 
garments and the short jacket or waist in preference. 
Had the present style prevailed when the charming 
Mrs. Gregory upset the water over herself she would 
have had no reason to blush or walk behind me up 
the slope. Fashion’s dictates would have silenced Mrs. 
Grundy. I often wonder what the old lady would say 
now. 

In a few minutes we reached the cabin. The little 
girl, with her hair in curl-papers, was in the kitchen 
and immediately came up and put her hand confidingly 
in mine. We were friends in an instant. I inquired if 
I could do anything else to assist, but Mrs. Gregory 
declined any further aid and I withdrew. 

That afternoon the little girl came to my cabin with 
a note from her mother asking me if I would summon 
a doctor, as her husband seemed very ill. I called in 
Dr. Fifer, a near neighbor, and in a day or two the 
patient was about again, apparently as well as ever. 
When the couple called with the little girl to thank me 
for my assistance, we had a good laugh over the 
broken pitcher incident. 

Of course, the Gregorys joined our little club and, 
equally of course, they proved to be among its most 
valuable and interesting members. Both could recite 
very well. Kurtz could sing and play the violin. Nel- 
son was the poetaster, and got oflP some very clever 
things. Kelly and the few remaining members did 
little parts, while I was expected to contribute the Joe 
Millerisms or jokes. When winter evenings set in and 
snow lay on the ground, and the cold blasts roare^l 
through the deep recesses of the canyons and moaned 


The Mystic Spring, 


64 

and shrieked about our frail habitations like a thou- 
sand demons loosed from the infernal regions bent 
on devouring us, we only piled higher the logs in the 
fire-place, and, as the ruddy flames cast a warm glow 
over the little party of friends, we bade defiance to the 
fuming and raging of the Storm King. Ah! those 
were pleasant evenings. They were not the pleasantest 
I ever spent, for there was in store for me almost a 
lifetime of sweet compansionship with one who, though 
gone before, is not lost, and who only passed from 
earth to heaven a brief while ago. 

The winter of 1858-59 slipped rapidly away, and the 
spring found us all alive and as happy as possible un- 
der the circumstances of remoteness from the outer 
world and a sometimes short supply of wholesome 
food. The Gregorys had become the most popular 
people in the village, and the little girl — Mae Judith — 
was welcomed everywhere. I named one of my claims 
“Little Judy” in her honor. 

One evening Nelson and I were seated on a rude 
bench in front of the Gregory cabin, conversing upon 
some topic of local interest — perhaps it was the latest 
murder, or the last robbery, or the most recent gold 
“find.” Whatever the subject may have been matters 
nothing now, but as we talked I observed an old gen- 
tleman advancing up the bank. When he reached the 
top he halted for a moment to gaze upon the magnifi- 
cent panorama of snow-clad hills which stretched far 
away into space on all sides. Then he strolled along 
until he came opposite to us. Addressing Mr. Nelson, 
he asked if he would direct him to Yale Creek. Nel- 
son pointed in the direction and the old gentleman, 
bowing politely, passed on. The next day I met him 
on the main street walking listlessly along, gazing at 
the stores, the cabins and the rushing river alternately. 
An hour or so afterward I found myself seated at the 
^same table with him in Power’s hotel. We soon struck 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 65 

up an acquaintance, and my ins-a-vis told me that his 
name was Merrill, that he was a resident of Philadel- 
phia, and sufficiently well-to-do to travel for pleasure. 
‘T am not rich,” he added, “but I have enough.” 

Let me describe Mr. Merrill for a moment. He was 
tall and apparently sixty years of age. His hair was 
snow-white and he wore a full white beard close cut. 
He was dressed as a gentleman of the period in clothes 
of fashionable make. Taken all in all, he was what the 
ladies would call “a nice-looking old gentleman.” Pie 
explained that he was travelling for his health, and be- 
ing an ardent fisherman had already made a slight ac- 
quaintance with the trout in Yale Creek. The follow- 
ing afternoon found us both casting the fly in the 
creek. Merrill caught two fish to my one, and when 
the shades of evening began to gather we counted our 
catch and found that we had a dozen plump trout. On 
our way in I proposed that we should present Mrs. 
Gregory with the catch, and the proposition was unani- 
mously adopted. Merrill was not acquainted with the 
Gregorys, but when I made the presentation Mr. Greg- 
ory invited us inside, and the ice being thus broken 
the newcomer was immediately accepted as a welcome 
guest. From that time on the intimacy grew, and it 
was an almost daily occurrence for the couple to re- 
ceive a few trout or a brace of grouse from Mr. Mer- 
rill or myself. Our little club continued to meet at the 
different homes and had a good time generally. Mr. 
Merrill, having joined us, added much to our enjoy- 
ment and pleasure by his exquisite playing on the flute 
and his rendition of some of the old songs in a low 
and sweet tenor voice. We became very much at- 
tached to him, and although each week he would an- 
nounce that next week he would leave for home, he 
lingered on and on and became more and more inti- 
mate at the Gregory’s. ^ 


66 


The Mystic Spring, 


“Can’t you see what’s the matter ?” asked Kurtz one 
day, as we were discussing Merrill’s prolonged stay. 

“I’m sure I can’t,” said I. 

“Well, I’ll tell you, then. He’s gone on Mrs. Greg- 
ory.” 

“Nonsense,” I returned. “He’s an old man and 
she’s not more than twenty-two or three.” 

“I don’t care. He’s gone on her,” insisted Kurtz. 

In a day or two I became convinced that the dainty 
little lady had really captivated Mr. Merrill, and that, 
perhaps all unconsciously to herself, she was being 
drawn more and more to his side. In fact, he did not 
seem happy except when loitering about the Gregory 
house, where he was now a daily guest and almost 
appeared to have established himself as one of the 
family. 

I didn’t like the aspect of things at all. Really, it 
was none of my business ; but I felt somewhat indig- 
nant at the turn affairs had taken — indignant to think 
that Merrill, whom I had introduced to the family, had 
displaced me, as it were, in their regard. Ella Wheeler 
Wflcox has written “that the chivalry of a man con- 
sists in protecting a woman from every other man but 
himself.” Was that the brand of chivalry that had 
awakened my indignation ? 

About this time I noticed that a great change had 
come over my lawyer friend Riley. He seldom went 
to the Gregorys now and he seldom attended the club 
meetings. When I met him he seemed to wish to 
avoid me, grew abstracted and moody in his manner, 
and took to walking by himself. Was he, too, the least 
bit jealous? Once I encountered Riley and Merrill 
engaged in deep conversation at Power’s, but I thought 
nothing of that. And so the weeks wore on and Mer- 
rill remained, without giving any sign, except the oft- 
repeated assertion, that he intended ever to go away. 


' AND Other Tales of Western Life 67 

The club gradually became demoralized; its meetings 
fell off and then ceased altogether. 

“Do you know,” I said to Nelson one day, “I be- 
lieve that that man Merrill is no good? Who knows 
anything about him ? Why, he may be the biggest ras- 
cal unhung for all we know. What’s he doing here, 
anyhow ?” 

Nelson just laughed loud and long. “Don’t be a 
fool,” he said. “The old man’s too many for you 
young chaps, and that’s all there is about it. You’re 
jealous and so is Kurtz, and so are all the rest. What 
business is it of yours if the Gregorys like him?” 

Next I tried Riley. He said nothing, but shook his 
head and walked off with a pensive and dejected air. 
So I discontinued my visits to the Gregorys and ceased 
to talk about them and Merrill, although whenever I 
met them the lady and gentleman urged me to call and 
evidently wondered at my continued absence. 

One afternoon the Gregorys left Yale by the trail 
for Texas Bar, a few miles down the river. They 
announced that they would return late the same even- 
ing. Merrill was much concerned at their proposed 
absence and accompanied them some two miles on their 
journey. He got back late in the afternoon and after 
dining went to his room. After dark a light was seen 
in their cabin. The next morning Gregory com- 
plained that during their absence the cabin had been 
entered and although everything had been turned 
topsy-turvy, nothing had been taken except a few 
papers. The affair created a little interest for a day 
or two, and was then forgotten. 

One dismal, stormy night I sat at my desk inditing 
a letter for a San Frincisco newspaper. The candle 
had burned low in its socket, so I blew the flickering 
light out and rose to procure a fresh candle. As I 
groped towards the box I became aware, by a gentle 


68 


The Mystic Spring, 


tapping on the window-pane, of the presence of some- 
one on the outside. 

“Who’s there?” I demanded. 

The deep voice of Lawyer Riley responded in a 
hoarse whisper, “Let me in, H., I want to speak to 
you. Don’t light your candle. I must talk to you in 
the dark, or not at all. I’ve something to tell you. 
Let me in, quick, by the back door.” 

I didn’t like the proposition a bit. There had been 
several murderous assaults and robberies in town quite 
recently. I wasn’t afraid of Riley, of course; but sup- 
pose the person now seeking admittance should prove 
not to be Riley? What if one of the many despera- 
does with whom Yale was infested at that time had 
assumed his voice and under that guise should gain 
admittance, and finding me unarmed and off my guard 
should slay and rob me? I lighted a match and 
searched till I found a “black-jack,” with which a New 
Zealand miner had presented me a while before, and 
then groped my way to the back door and opened it. 
In the gloom, which was slightly relieved by the light 
of the stars, I beheld the substantial outlines of the 
Riley figure. The lawyer stumbled rather than walked 
inside, closed and bolted the door and took me by the 
hand. I noticed that the hand he placed in mine trem- 
bled like an aspen-leaf, and his breath came and went 
in great puffs like that of a man who had ascended a 
pair of stairs rapidly and was exhausted when he 
reached the top. 

“Look here, H.,” he exclaimed, “I come to you for 
advice. I’m in a devil of a fix. I’ve done a most 
despicable thing. For money I have consented to be- 
tray a man who never did me any harm, whose hospi- 
tality I have enjoyed and whom I love like a brother. 
The Eastern matron who drove the nail into the head 
of a fugitive ally, who had just fed at her board and 
who was sleeping beneath the shadow of her tent, was 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 69 

no meaner than I feel myself to be. I was tempted and 
I fell — fell like Lucifer.” 

I was shocked by his agitation and words. Was I 
the friend whom he had consented to betray? By a 
strong effort I controlled my feelings and managed 
to ask: 

“Riley, what in the name of all that is good and 
great and holy do you mean ?” 

“I mean that I’m a villain — that I have taken a re- 
tainer of $100 in gold to entrap and betray a friend. 
I’m a Judas, the only difference between me and Is- 
cariot being that where he took silver I took gold. The 
principle — or rather the want of it — is the same. I 
wish I had died before I ever saw Yale. I’ve taken 
blood-money — blood-money !” 

“Come, now,” I said, soothingly, “tell me all about 
it — that’s a good chap.” 

“Oh !” he groaned, “how can I tell the story of my 
shame, my disgrace, my fall.” 

“If you don’t tell me,” I urged, “how can I help and 
advise you.” 

“That’s right,” he said. “I must tell you. Well, 
that Merrill’s a devil.” 

Instantly it occurred to me that there had been 
trouble at the Gregory household and that the old man 
had either flown with the pretty little woman or had 
insulted her, and that Riley had been retained to de- 
fend Merrill, and now repented having taken the fee. 

“I knew it, I knew it!” I eagerly exclaimed. “He’s 
no good, and I said so weeks ago.” 

“Oh!” broke in Riley, “you’re wrong. He’s bad, 
but it’s not in the way you think. Gregory is a de- 
faulter, He was cashier in a New York bank, and 
was short in his accounts to an enormous amount. He 
came here to hide. Merrill, who is a great detective — 
the greatest in America — followed him here and 
has stayed ever since, accepting his hospitality, eating 


70 


,The Mystic Spring, 


his salt, and awaiting an opportunity to take him back. 
But the extradition treaty is so lame and faulty that 
it does not cover this case, and Merrill has been await- 
ing a chance for months to induce Gregory to set his 
foot on American soil where he can be seized. The 
detective consulted me and I told him he could not 
take his quarry back legally, but that if he could get 
him across the line he might kidnap him. I consented 
to act as a spy on my friend an entrap him, and leave 
his dear wife and that sweet little Mae unprotected. 
My God!” (beating his brow with his clenched fist) 
“I am the most miserable wretch in Yale to-night. I 
have been wretched ever since I yielded to temptation. 
The meanest hanger-on about the faro-bank at Ben- 
nett’s is a moral king to me. What shall I do ?” 

“Pay back the money and retire from the case,” I 
cried. 

“Oh! but the worst is not yet told. To-morrow 
morning Gregory and Merrill will leave for Point Rob- 
erts, on the American side, where, the detective has 
told him, he has a gold mine, and where the defaulter 
will be laid hold of as a criminal. A canoe with an 
Indian crew has been engaged and the supplies are on 
board. It lies on the river bank and at daybreak they 
will be oil. At the last moment I have come to you. 
My conscience is awakened. Just think of my aiding 
a scheme to rob that woman and her child of their pro- 
tector and send him to prison. I have eaten of his salt. 
An Arab of the desert would never betray a man 
whose salt he had eaten. What can be done to save 
him and make me a decent white man again?” 

I thought for a few moments and then said, “We 
must tell others and get their assistance to counteract 
this infamous scheme.” 

“But,” said Riley, “what becomes of my honor, my 
sworn pledge as a barrister? How can I save my 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 71 

friend without betraying my client? and if I betray 
my client Begbie will strike me off the rolls.” 

“The detective had no right to ask you to assist him 
in an infamous transaction, and it is not professional 
in you to retain a fee for doing dirty work. Throw 
the fee back and let me tell Kurtz and Nelson all about 
the plot.” 

“You are right,” said Riley, after a pause. “Do as 
you wish.” 

“Wait here till I return,” I said, and I opened the 
door cautiously and peered out. No one was in sight, 
and I soon found myself in the room with John Kurtz 
and Hugh Nelson. 

Seated in a chair was Frank Way, who conducted 
the Spuzzum ferry, where the Trutch Suspension 
Bri(^e was afterwards erected and where it still spans 
the Fraser. Frank was a droll character. He was an 
American and not a man of much education; but he 
was a bright as a new sovereign, and as keen-witted 
as a Fox razor. To this day old Yaleites relate stories 
of his pranks and practical jokes. Some of these were 
not nice, and could not be safely printed or told to ears 
polite, but he was the soul of wit and humor. He was 
a man of great resource and bodily and mental activ- 
ity. During the gold rush he made barrels of money 
by ferrying miners and their effects across Fraser 
River at fifty cents a head. He told me that one day 
he earned in fares a tin bucket full of silver and gold. 
Once, he said, he started across with ten men in his 
boat. The craft ran into a riffle and was upset. All 
were precipitated into the water, and all were drowned 
save him. 

“You were out their fares,” I said. 

“No, I wasn’t,” he answered. “I always collected 
in advance for fear of just such an accident.” 

“And how were you saved?” I asked. 

“By diving and swimming under the rough surface 


72 


iThe Mystic Spring, 


of the water as long as I could hold my breath. When 
I came up all my late companions had disappeared; 
but I found myself in an eddy and so got ashore. 
Whenever you are in business trouble, young fellow,” 
he continued, “and see no road open for escape, just 
risk a little more — take a header — and in nine cases 
out of ten you’ll come up all right.” 

Some of my business readers will be able to say if 
this is sound philosophy or not. 

I laid Riley’s trouble before the three friends, and 
we all agreed that the situation was a serious one and 
that if Gregory was to be saved immediate action must 
be taken. Several plans were suggested and aban- 
doned, because they involved the telling to the woman 
the story of her husband’s shame, for we assumed that 
she did not know of it, and we wished to spare her 
that trial. 

At last Frank Way asked: 

“Where did Riley say the canoe is moored ?” 

“In front of the bar, and the supplies are already on 
board. The party will leave at the first glimmer of 
daylight.” 

“Humph!” said Frank, thoughtfully. Then rising 
and yawning as if weary of the whole business, he 
beckoned to me and we took our leave. Way remained 
outside of my house while I went in and told Riley that 
all were of the opinion that the retainer should be re- 
turned, and that if at daybreak no other solution could 
be found, Mrs. Gregory must be told and the plot ex- 
posed. The lawyer eagerly accepted the proposition 
to return the fee, but he shrank from the publicity that 
would attach to the transaction, and as there was bad 
blood between himself and Chief Justice Begbie, he 
dreaded the outcome should the matter reach the Chief 
Justice’s ears. 

Aurora’s rosy fingers had just pinned back the sable 
curtains of night, and the eastern sky showed signs of 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 73 

the approach of another day, when Gregory left his 
cabin and threaded his way toward the beacL As he 
walked on the unsuspecting man hummed a popular 
air, happy in the anticipation of sudden wealth and 
assured prosperity. As he neared the river he saw the 
tall form of Merrill running excitedly up and down in 
the dim light, as he berated the crew of Indians who 
had been employed to navigate the boat to the mouth 
of the river. When he saw Gregory, Merrill cried : 

“Come here, quick!” 

Gregory hastened his steps and soon saw the cause 
of Merrill’s anger. During the night some one with 
an ax had cut and hacked the canoe until it was prac- 
tically destroyed, and the supplies that were laid in 
overnight must have been thrown into the river, for 
they were nowhere to be seen. 

Merrill was in a fearful rage. All his gentlemanly 
reserve was gone and his mouth emitted the most 
frightful profanity and vulgarity. He called down the 
curses of Heaven on the perpetrators of the deed and 
consigned them to the infernal regions. He abused the 
Indian crew and fiercely turned on Gregory and ac- 
cused him of being in the plot to destroy the canoe. 

Gregory denied all knowledge of the affair. 

“I never knew a thief who was not a liar,” exclaimed 
Merrill. 

“What do you mean?” hotly asked Gregory. 

“I mean that you are a thief — and you know it, and 
I know it!” 

Gregory fell back as if struck a hard blow. 

“Yes,” screamed the detective, his anger growing 

hotter and hotter; “you robbed the Bank in New 

York City. Your name is no more Gregory than my 
name’s Merrill, and if you were on the American side 
I would arrest you as a common thief. You are safe 
here, but I’ll get you yet, you !” 

Gregory, crushed and broken by the tirade of abuse 


74 


The Mystic Spring, 


and the knowledge of his crime so unexpectedly 
launched at him by the detective, whom up to that 
morning he had regarded as a gentleman and a warm 
personal friend, walked slowly away in one direction, 
while Merrill started to walk rapidly off in another. 
In his excitement the detective had not remembered the 
Indian crew. They, four in number, and armed with 
paddles, ran after him and demanded pay for their 
wrecked vessel. He tried to pass on, but they ob- 
structed his path and loudly demanded compensation, 
which at last he reluctantly gave them. 

When Merrill and Gregory had passed out of sight 
two heads were raised above the level of a great boul- 
der. After a careful survey the heads were followed 
by the bodies of two young white men, who walked 
to the beach and gazed at the wreck and expressed 
sympathy for the owners of the craft. Then the two 
walked slowly back to town, chuckling and laughing 
as they went, and sought their respective couches. 
They had been out all night and needed a little rest. 

At the noon hour Merrill, Kurtz and I met at Pow- 
er’s. Merrill had calmed down by this time, and his 
manner was as placid and serene as usual. He had 
no reason to think that we knew aught of the affair of 
the early morning. 

“Mr. Merrill,” Kurtz said, “I am commissioned by 
a gentleman who says he is indebted to you to give you 
one hundred dollars in gold.” 

Merrill started slightly and then said, “I was not 
aware I had a debtor in the camp. What is his name ?” 

“Riley,” I broke in, excitedly. “He says you em- 
pbyed him to do some legal business for you, but in- 
stead you tried to convert him into a detective. He 
declines to degrade the legal profession in that man- 
ner and returns your retainer.” 

Merrill, who saw that his disguise had been pene- 
trated and his designs were known, took the money 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 75 

without another word and gave a receipt. In the body 
of the receipt I was careful to introduce words which 
made it clear that Riley had taken the retainer under 
a misapprehension, so, should Begbie hear of the affair 
(which ne never did), no harm would have resulted to 
my friend. Merrill, unable to secure his prey, the fol- 
towing day left the river and Yale knew him no more. 
The papers stolen from Gregory’s house were never 
recovered. The Gregorys were at Yale when I came 
away early in i860. 

In the month of July, 1868, I found myself walking 
along an up-town street in New York City in search of 
some good clothes. I had landed two days before from 
a steamer from Central America, and the rush and 
crush and bustle of the metropolis of the New World 
confused and almost stunned me. As I strolled on I 
gazed like a hayseed or cheechako at the people, the 
noisy vehicles and the displays in the store windows. 
I had just made a sale of $4,000 in gold coin, for which 
I received the sum of $5,600 in greenbacks, gold being 
at a premium of 40, and I felt Iwth rich and generous. 
“An easy way to make money,” I exclaimed to myself. 
“Why, it’s like a touch of Aladdin’s lamp ; I shall spend 
the $1,600 and take back the same amount with which 
I started out. My trip won’t cost me a cent.” But in a 
short time I found out my error. I had to pay double 
and treble prices for everything. For a fifty cent pair 
of braces I was asked two dollars, and for two suits of 
underwear of poor quality I paid nine dollars. Every- 
thing else was equally high, so that when, six months 
later, I was again in Victoria I found that not only had 
the $1,600 premium vanished, but a good part of the 
$4,000 besides. 

But to return to that particular July morning in 
1868. As I walked along I suddenly became con- 
scious that my name had been called by some person 


The Mystic Spring, 


76 

behind me. I turned and there saw a lady and gentle- 
man, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and at their 
side was a tall, elegant-looking young lady of about 
eighteen years. 

“How do you do?” asked the lady. 

“I’m well, thank you,” I replied suspiciously, for I 
had heard of the confidence men and women of New 
York who pick up and swindle greenies by pretending 
to have known them in other parts. 

“Do you not recognize us?” asked the gentleman. 

“I certainly do not,” I rejoined, still suspicious. 

“Do you not remember the Gregorys at Yale?” 

“Yes, indeed I do,” and then a light dawned upon 
me. These were my old-time friends. We shook 
hands, but the Gregorys’ grasp was anything but cor- 
dial. Their hands lay in mine like dead fish. I must 
have appeared to them for all the world like a broken 
miner in travel-worn garments who was seeking a 
loan. The maiden came forward and bowed distantly. 

“And this, I suppose, is my dear little friend, Mae 
Judith — little Judy,” I exclaimed joyously. 

“I am Miss Gregory,” she said, with an emphasis on 
the Miss. 

Yes; she was the same girl whom I often held on 
my knee, and for whom I had invented appalling 
stories of fire and shipwreck and fairies and hobgob- 
lins in the days of old, the days of gold; grown tall 
and graceful, with the same lovely eyes and the fair 
hair turned a little darker, but still a beautiful sun- 
kissed blonde. How many, many times we two had 
ridden a cockhorse to Banbury Cross, gone fishing 
with Simple Simon in a bucket of water, recited 
“Ba-ba, Black Sheep,” and pitied Mother Hubbard 
with an empty cupboard and a hungry dog. 

“I remember you very well,” she continued. “I shall 
never forget the nice trout you used to bring us.” 

. “And i,” said Mrs. Gregory, “always recall the 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 77 

pitcher of water that splashed over me when I think 
of you.” 

“Yes,” I said, coldly, “those were occasions to be 
remembered.” 

I turned to Gregory. I wondered if he could recall 
anything more substantial that I had done for him and 
his. All he had to say was, “What could I get for my 
two lots at Yale?” Not a word of gratitude or thanks 
for the man who, with Frank Way, had imperilled his 
own safety and committed an offence under the law 
to prevent him falling into the hands of justice. I 
told them the latest news about their former neigh- 
bors and then with a sort of cold-storage air we parted 
forever. I was disenchanted. To be remembered only 
for a few trout and a broken pitcher, and the price of 
town lots, after the tremendous sacrifice I had made 
for them, was too much for my sensitive nature, and 
I dropped the curtain on the episode only to raise it 
again to-day after a lapse of thirty-six years. What 
Gregory’s right name was, or how the man got out of 
his financial stress, I did not know, nor did I care to 
inquire. I never heard of them again, and have man- 
aged to survive the estrangement. 


SWEET MARIE. 

“He was perfumed like a milliner, — 

And ’twixt his finger and his thumb held 
A potMicet-box, which ever and anon 
He gave his nose, and took ’tway again.” 

Early in 1862 the United States Government ap- 
pointed Hon. Allen Francis to be its Consul at Vic- 
toria. He was the first of a long line of Consuls at 
this port, which began with Mr. Francis and is con-^ 


The Mystic Spring, 


78 

tinued in the person of Hon. A. E. Smith, the present 
able and popular guardian of the interests of American 
citizens here. Mr. Francis was an urbane and kindly 
dispositioned man. His loyalty was unquestioned and, 
as this narrative will show, he was sufficiently skilled 
in the arts of diplomacy to successfully cope with the 
many clever minds that gathered at Victoria in that 
year with the avowed purpose of plotting against the 
government of their country and making this port the 
basis of operations for aiding the Southern rebels in 
their effort to destroy the Union. At the time of 
which I write a bloody war was raging between the 
Northern and the Southern States, and thousands of 
lives were daily lost in the struggle. The Northern 
armies had suffered many severe reverses, and the out- 
come of the war, which lasted through four long, 
weary years, and cost five billions of dollars and two 
millions of lives, was extremely doubtful. 

In 1862 General Grant, whose skill was destined to 
save his country from disruption, was unborn as a 
great commander, and a rebel army had invaded the 
Northern State of Pennsylvania, leaving a train of 
death, desolation and misery in its track. The period 
was one of great anxiety for the friends of the Abra- 
ham Lincoln Government, and as news of successive 
rebel victories were flashed over the wires the friends 
of the South resident here became noisily jubilant and 
the friends of the Union correspondingly depressed. 

Shortly after the outbreak of the war many sympa- 
thizers from the Slave States came to reside in Vic- 
toria. Some leased residences, others took apartments 
at hotels, still others went into business, while a fourth 
class proceeded to Cariboo and engaged in gold min- 
ing and trading. 

Amongst the most prominent Southerners who went 
to Cariboo were Jerome and Thaddeus Harper and 
John and Oliver Jeffries. These men drove large 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 79 

bands of cattle from California and Oregon into Cari- 
boo, and as beef was sold there at $1.50 a pound they 
realized large fortunes in a single season. The Har- 
pers, who were from Virginia, took up land on the 
Mainland and became the cattle kings of the interior. 
The two Jeffries, who were from the Slave State of 
Alabama, joined the Southern colony at Victoria, and 
having heaps of money were soon the leading spirits 
in an enterprise which, for audacity of conception, was 
unsurpassed by the most daring achievements of the 
Southerners during the whole of that awful contest. 

The Mathieson brothers, two German caterers, built 
a new brick hotel, naming it the St. Nicholas, on Gov- 
ernment Street, across the road from the New Eng- 
land. They opened it early in the fall of 1862, and did 
a roaring business. I took a room on the second floor 
and ate my meals at the Hotel de France. Spencer’s 
Arcade stands partly on the site of the Hotel de 
France, which was destroyed by fire on the 6th of No- 
vember, 1868. The Jeffries engaged apartments on the 
upper flat of the St. Nicholas, rooms 23 and 24, and 
fitted them up handsomely. They entertained their 
Southern and Victoria friends liberally. A Mr. and 
Mrs. Pusey, also Southerners, had a room on the sec- 
ond flat just opposite mine. At Ringo’s Hotel on 
Yates Street resided a handsome young American, 
claiming to be a Southerner, named Richard Lovell. 
He was a great favorite of the Jeffries, as, indeed, he 
was of everyone who came in contact with him. He 
dressed well and his only fault was a habit of sprink- 
ling his handkerchiefs and garments with a powerful 
and pungent perfume. Now, it happens that I have a 
natural repugnance for perfumery, and I apprised 
Lovell of that fact when we had become well ac- 
quainted. He laughed and said that it was a habit 
into which he had fallen and could not break off. 


8o 


The Mystic Spring, 


“Besides,” he added, “it keeps down the smell of to- 
bacco after I have smoked.” 

“Of the two,” I rejoined, “I prefer the weed. In 
fact. I’d prefer a whiif of sewer-gas any day to the 
odor of perfumery.” 

“Every man to his taste or smell,” rejoined Dick 
good-naturedly, and the conversation ended. He little 
thought, nor did I, that his fondness for scent would 
prove his undoing. 

The St. Nicholas Hotel has passed through many 
phases and hands since the Mathieson brothers failed 
and went away and died. It is now known as the 
Savoy. I not long since ascended to the upper floor 
and entered rooms Nos. 23 and 24 for the first time in 
forty-one years. Except in the furnishings no changes 
have been made in that long interval. But ah! if 
those walls could speak what tales they would narrate 
of the scenes that have transpired within the compass 
of their four corners since I last sat and talked and 
smoked and drank toasts and sang therein! 

Mr. Pusey was a slim, gray man of about fifty 
years. His wife was a large and forceful personage, 
stout and large-limbed. She had a passion for loading 
her pretty fingers — for she had small, lovely hands — 
with costly diamonds, and her earrings, if genuine 
stones, were worth much. Mr. Pusey ’s face wore a 
tired, shrinking look — a sort of excuse-me-for-being- 
alive expression ; his wife, on the other hand, was self- 
assertive. She was emotional and intensely Southern 
in her ideas, and claimed that a white man had as 
much right to buy and sell niggers as he had to buy 
and sell cattle or merchandise. I did not agree with 
her, but I thought it unwise to say so, therefore I 
simply acquiesced and let the idea that I was a South- 
ern sympathizer take hold of the lady’s mind and re- 
main there undisturbed. So we became good friends. 

The Jeffries and Puseys often gave little “even- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 8i 


ings,” to which Dick Lovell and I and many others 
were invited. Mrs. Pusey could sing a little, and one 
night she brought with her to the Jeffries’ room a 
young lady whom she introduced as “Miss Jackson, a 
niece of Stonewall Jackson, the famous Southern 
general.” Miss Jackson was about thirty years of age 
and rather nice looking, but she did not strike me as 
being at all girlish in her figure or ways. As a matter 
of fact, I addressed her as “Mrs.” Jackson until cor- 
rected by Mrs. Pusey. Miss Jackson had a guitar and 
Oliver Jeffries could blow through the hole of a flute 
and make a loud noise, which, in his conceit, he 
thought was music. All the gentlemen could join in 
the choruses, and cigars having been passed round 
(the ladies said they liked the smell of tobacco), and 
a decanter of dark brandy and another of Hudson’s 
Bay rum having gone the rounds “with the sun,” and 
the ladies having had their share, the singing of patri- 
otic songs was commenced. The notes of “Way 
Down South in Dixie” and “My Maryland” floated 
out into the night air and filled the corridors with 
uncertain harmony, but the evenings were jolly and 
all were extremely happy. 

On one occasion we became exceedingly boisterous. 
News had come across the Sound by boat of a great 
rebel victory, and the company excelled all previous 
efforts in singing Confederate airs, while their rebel 
hearts, bursting with enthusiasm, found frequent vent 
in loud cheering. The two rooms were crowded and 
the rejoicing was kept up until early morning. Lovell 
was especially enthusiastic. He excelled all others 
present in the exuberance of his language and the ex- 
travagance of his actions. The ladies — there were 
several present — were delighted with Dick, and when 
at last he staggered away for his hotel he was voted 
a jolly good fellow and an uncompromising rebel. 
When, later on, I left rooms 23 and 24 John Jeffries 


82 


The Mystic Spring, 


insisted upon accompanying me. As I unlocked my 
door he entered, uninvited, and, turning the key on 
the inside, put it in his pocket. I made a mental note 
that it was a rather cheeky proceeding to make a man 
a prisoner in his own room, but I said nothing and 
calmly awaited results. Jeffries examined the window; 
it was secure. He looked at the transom ; it was closed. 
He tried the door; it was fast. He looked beneath 
the bed ; no one was there. He opened the wardrobe 
and felt among the clothes. Then he turned sharply 
around and regarded me closely for a full minute. I 
did not enjoy the scrutiny and said so ; moreover, I 
told him curtly that I wished to go to bed. Then he 
spoke : 

“H.,” he began, “pardon me, but I have something 
to say to you of vast importance. It is a close secret, 
and of the company present to-night known only to 
George Cole, Jerome Harper, Dick Lovell, Mrs. Pusey, 
Oliver and myself. We want your help and have de- 
cided to take you into the scheme. Should you decline 
you must take an oath never to repeat what I am about 
to tell you.” 

I told him I had a decided objection to making a 
promise before I knew what was required of me. 

He begged hard, and I finally gave the pledge. He 
then said: 

“We intend to fit out a privateer at Victoria to prey 
on American shipping. A treasure ship leaves San 
Francisco twice a month with from $2,000,000 to 
$3,000,000 in gold dust for the East. With a good 
boat we can intercept and rob and burn two of those 
steamers on the lonely Mexican coast and return to 
Victoria with five million dollars before the Wash- 
ington Government will have heard of the incident.” 

“But,” I urged, “you’ll be caught and handed over 
to the American authorities for piracy, and then you’ll 
be hanged.” 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 83 

“Not at all. Look at the privateers Alabama and 
Shenandoah. They have destroyed millions of dol- 
lars’ worth of American shipping and they sail in and 
out of French and British ports unmolested. They 
hold letters of marque from the Confederate Govern- 
ment, and England and France have recognized the 
Southern States as belligerents.” 

“But,” I said, “without letters of marque you will 
be pirates all the same.” 

“Well,” he replied, “I have them in my room, signed 
by Jeff Davis and sealed by Judah P. Benjamin, Sec- 
retary of State. We have officers here and a strong 
crew. All we want is a suitable vessel. The Otter, 
and the more ancient Beaver, of the Hudson’s Bay 
Company, can be bought, but they are not suitable — 
too slow and frail. We have got our eyes at last on a 
good ship and can get her for the business. But we 
require outside help and we have selected you to do a 
certain thing for us.” 

“What do you want me to do?” I asked. 

“You know the Consul well. He is clever, but a 
man in whom he has confidence can fool him. You 
and he are close friends. An article will be prepared 
by Cole for your paper which will mislead him and 
put him and his detectives on the wrong scent. While 
they are following that scent we shall get away in our 
ship, and without railroads or telegraphs anywhere on 
the coast, and with no warship convenient to follow, 
we shall be back with the treasure in six weeks.” 

I confess that while this bold man (who believed 
implicitly in the justice of his cause and pur[^se) 
spoke I felt a creepy feeling come over me. I wished 
he had kept his secret. I had no intention of doing as 
he wished, but I was afraid, actually afraid, to tell 
him so. He looked earnest and fiendish and I had 
reason to think he carried a knife and revolver ready 
for use, while I was unarmed. 


84 


The Mystic Spring, 


He awaited my answer and I asked for time — a 
couple of days. After pressing very hard for an im- 
mediate decision, he consented to give the time, adding 
significantly that he thought I had better agree. He 
then unlocked the door, bade me good night and 
passed along the hall and up the stairs leading to his 
rooms. I watched him until he disappeared and then 
I became sensible of a strong odor that filled the 
passage. 

“If I did not know that Dick Lovell has been abed 
for the last hour I’d be ready to swear that he’s not 
far from this room now. Ugh! that awful smell. I’d 
detect it anywhere. If that man should commit a 
crime he could be tracked from Victoria to Halifax by 
the scent.” Thus soliloquizing I locked my door and 
fell asleep. 

In the morning H. M. S. Clio, Capt. Tumour com- 
manding, dropped anchor in Esquimalt harbor. She 
had come from Honolulu. Among her midshipmen 
was Lord Charles Beresford, now a British admiral, 
and one of the bravest of the many brave sailors in our 
service. The Clio brought the information that Lord 
Charles, while ashore at Honolulu, had torn the Amer- 
ican coat-of-arms from its position over the entrance 
to the Consulate, taken it aboard the Clio and hung it 
up in his cabin as a trophy. The published account 
proceeded to say that Captain Tumour, when in- 
formed of the outrage, manned a launch and con- 
ducted the young midshipman to the Consulate, where, 
after offering an humble apology to the Consul and the 
United States Government, Lord Charles ascended a 
ladder and restored the emblem to its former position. 
The action of Captain Tumour was everywhere com- 
mended by patriotic people, and Lord Charles, con- 
siderably crestfallen and very penitent, was not long 
in disgrace. While the ship remained on this station 
he made many warm friends, and was really a fine 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 85 

young fellow, but as full of fun and practical jokes 
as all Beresfords are historically reputed to be. 

The news of the insult to the United States Gov- 
ernment at Honolulu gave the greatest satisfaction to 
the secessionist colony at Victoria, and some graceless 
rebels went at night to the Consulate, then on Wharf 
Street, and painted a “plug” hat on the head and a 
pipe in the mouth of the eagle that forms the central 
figure of the American arms. A liberal reward was 
offered, but the perpetrators were never discovered. 
The following day two English bootblacks, who kept 
a little shop, were paid $10 to raise a small Confed- 
erate flag over their establishment. The Unionists 
were indignant and appealed to the police, who, of 
course, could do nothing. They therefore proceeded 
in a Iwdy to tear down the offensive emblem, bbt 
twenty or thirty determined-looking men formed a 
solid phalanx in front of the shop and the flag waved 
till noon, when it was voluntarily lowered. Mrs. 
Pusey was on springs during all this excitement. Her 
husband, who had not the least control over her, was 
always referred to contemptuously as “Mrs. Pusey’s 
husband.” She actually proposed that a public recep- 
tion be tendered Lord Charles for his act in removing 
the arms, and went so far as to order printed some 
cards of invitation. She was finally persuaded out of 
the notion by John Jeffries, who recognized the ab- 
surdity and unwisdom of the proposition. 

While these things were happening the time when 
I must decide to accept or reject Jeffries’ proposition 
was drawing near. I was extremely nervous. I 
blamed myself for having had anything to do in a 
social way with a body of men and women with whose 
principles and ideas I had no sympathy; and I saw 
that my duplicity in making them think that I ap- 
proved of their cause, merely for the sake of having 
“a good time,” was about to bring upon me a right- 


86 


The Mystic Spring, 


ecus punishment. Happen what might, I was de- 
termined not to deceive the Consul. He was a warm 
personal friend, and I was always a welcome visitor 
at his home. He had trusted me and told me some 
things in confidence which I could not reveal. Jeffries 
had done the same, and altogether I was in a pretty 
fix. Finally, I hit upon a plan which I hoped would 
lift me out of my difficulty. 

I decided to keep away from the conspirators, to tell 
no one of the proposition, and return no answer to 
Jeffries if I could help it. I left the St. Nicholas and 
engaged a room at the Hotel de France. 

Alx)ut two hours after the time set for my answer 
had expired I was walking along Government street, 
near the corner of Broughton, when Oliver Jeffries 
tapped me on the shoulder and said : 

“John is awaiting your answer.” 

“Tell him I’ve no answer to give him,” I replied. 

“You promised.” 

“Yes, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll have nothing 
to do with the plot; I shan’t deceive the consul, but I 
won’t betray John.” 

Oliver regarded me with a ferocious glare and then 
turned and walked abruptly away. Towards evening 
George Cole entered my office and handed me a note. 
It was a challenge to fight John Jeffries. He proposed 
that we should go to San Juan Island, then in the joint 
occupation of the American and British Governments, 
both maintaining a small garrison there, and engage 
in a duel. I must have turned as pale as death, but I 
managed to say that I would consult a friend, and the 
gentleman went away. It took me fully half an hour 
to pull myself together, and then I walked over to the 
Hotel de France, not that I had any appetite, but I 
wanted time to think the matter over. I took a seat 
at one of the tables and buried my face in my hands, 


t? 


AND Other Tales of WestSrn Life 87 

cursing myself for all sorts of a fool for having got 
into such a mess. 

As I sat there a cheery voice exclaimed: “Halloa, 
H., what’s the matter with you? Are you ill?” 

I looked up and saw standing at the table Augustine 
Hibbard, a native of Montreal, but who had become 
an American citizen, with whom I was on most inti- 
mate terms and whose company I much enjoyed. 

He sat down and I told him that I had been chal- 
lenged to fight a duel by an American rebel. Now 
Hibbard, who was a strong friend of the Union, was 
as brave as a lion, and seemed to enjoy my confusion. 

“Accept the challenge and I’ll be your second,” he 
cried. 

“Hibbard,” I pleaded, “I just can’t fight. I’ve 
turned over a new leaf. I intend to lead another and 
better life. To tell you the truth, last night I pro- 
posed to one of the sweetest, dearest and loveliest of 
her sex and was accepted. It is too bad, just when 
I have the sum of human happiness within my grasp to 
have to drop all and fight a duel about nothing! No, 
I won’t meet him. She would never speak to me 
again, even if I should escape with my life, which 
isn’t likely.” 

“By heavens,” cried Hibbard, “you shall either fight 
or I’ll fight for you. I’ll go and see these men — wait 
here till I return,” and he started for the St. Nicholas 
on a half run. 

He was back in half an hour and reported that he 
had seen both Jeffries and Cole and told them I was 
eager for the fray; that I was a dead shot with a re- 
volver and had chosen that weapon ; that I had fought 
and winged my man in Texas (a place I was never in). 

“Hibbard,” I groaned, “you know all this is untrue.” 

“My dear lad,” he cut in, “I am a second. A sec- 
ond is a diplomat. A diplomat is an official liar. Ergo, 
I am an unofficial liar.” 


88 


The Mystic Spring, 


I smiled at his syllogism and he rattled on, saying 
that if he hadn’t scared my opponents he had at least 
made them believe that I was a most dangerous ruffian 
who was thirsting for Jeffries’ blood. “I’ve set them 
thinking,” he added. As we conversed, Mr. and Mrs. 
Pusey entered the hotel, having seen us seated there. 
They were much excited. Mrs. Pusey was hysterical, 
speaking loudly, laughing and crying alternately. I 
forgot to say that I was afterwards told that Mrs. 
Pusey had sided with me in my quarrel^with Jeffries, 
declaring that she believed me right, before she knew 
anything about the affair. 

“What do you think?” she began, “I have just ascer- 
tained that my room has been entered, my drawers 
searched and valuable papers stolen. There was 
money there, but the thieves did not touch it, and, 
strange to say, there was the strongest odor of per- 
fume in the room when I first entered. I cannot ac- 
count for it, for I never use perfumery. The room 
smelt just like Lovell, who has never been in the room, 
to my knowledge.” 

After expressing my regret I left the Puseys and 
Hibbard and walked down to the Consulate to consult 
with Mr. Francis. He retired with me into a little den 
back of the main office. As he closed the door I de- 
tected a strong smell of Lovell’s peculiar perfume. I 
sniffed and said : “That smells like Dick Lovell.” 

“Lovell ? Lovell ?” asked the old gentleman. “Who 
is he?” 

“Oh !” I replied, “he is a rebel friend of mine.” 

I then told him that I had been challenged because 
I had expressed hostility to the Confederacy. I uttered 
not a word as to the true reason. He expressed sym- 
pathy, promised secrecy, and I went away. The 
reader may be sure that I passed several anxious 
hours thinking over the affair in which I was to en- 
gage as a principal. Four years before I had seen the 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 89 

body of Sloane, an unfortunate youth who was shot 
on Church Hill in a duel, and a vision of that dreadful 
scene haunted me as I walked on. What if I should 
share the same fate? What if I should escape with 
my life, but lose my right hand, as my friend Racey 
Biven did, in a duel with Jim Dorsey at Oakland, Cal- 
ifornia, in 1855? How could I earn my bread with 
only the left hand? Suppose I lost a leg? or my lungs 
were perforated and I lived on for years a public 
burthen? Better be dead than a cripple or a hopeless 
invalid. As I strolled on I imagined the sun never 
seemed so bright and the sky so blue as they appeared 
just when I believed death, in a hideous form, was 
imminent. A canary, singing in a cage, poured forth 
melodious notes. “Surely,” I said, “that bird never 
sang so sweetly before.” A little white dog bounded 
and leaped on the sidewalk and barked a joyous wel- 
come as I entered his master’s shop. I imagined that 
the people I met on the street regarded me with deep 
interest, as though they knew all about it and were 
looking at a man who was either going to commit a 
murder or had received a death sentence. When I got 
inside the shop a lady at the counter seemed to stare 
at me with an expression of keen interest on her face, 
and a little girl (now a grandmother), put her hand in 
mine and said: “You look ’ick.” I bought some 
trifling articles, and as I hurried from the shop I ran 
against Willis Bond, who had once been a slave, and 
now was a house-mover, orator and politician. He was 
one of the cleverest men, white or black, that I have 
ever met. 

“Say, boss,” said Bond, “Youse looks pale. Is you 
sick ?” 

“No,” I replied, “I am quite well.” 

“Well,” persisted Bond, after a long stare, “I’d like 
to be white, but I don’t want to look so much like Mr, 
Hamblet’s father’s ghost as you does.” 


90 


The Mystic Spring, 


I went to my office and tried to write, but no use ; I 
could not form a sentence, I went outside again and 
met Dick Lovell. The man was as debonaire as ever 
and bitter in his denunciation of the United States 
Government. Evidently he had not heard of my quar- 
rel with Jeffries, or if he had he chose to ignore it. I 
was in no mood for talking. I met Hibbard by ap- 
pointment at the Hotel de France. He informed me, 
much to my disappointment and disgust, that the duel 
would come off on San Juan Island near his limekiln, 
and that he had suggested a glade close to his house 
for the contest. Boats would be ready the next morn- 
ing to take us across. I suppose there was never a 
more miserable man in the world than I was at that 
moment. I was utterly prostrated, not so much from 
a feeling of fear (although I was really scared), as 
from a knowledge that I was about to die a thoroughly 
innocent man. I had not even told the dearest friend 
I had on earth — indeed, I had not seen her since the 
quarrel with Jeffries, nor did I intend to until the 
meeting was over; and if I fell — well, that would end 
all. 

As we conversed Oliver Jeffries entered the hotel 
bar and, walking rapidly toward me, reached out his 
hand. I think I grasped it convulsively, for I had a 
feeling that there was to be a reconciliation. I know 
tliat I felt a great lump rise in my throat. 

“H.,” he exclaimed, and his eyes shone with a kindly 
light, “we’ve done you a great wrong. We’ve caught 
the traitor, and you’re absolved.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, eagerly. 

“An hour ago, while John and I were breakfasting, 
our room was entered and a tin box stolen. It con- 
tained papers of great value. As in the Puseys’ case, 
no money was taken, but the room smelt just like 
Lovell. So we went at once to Ringo’s and bounded 
up the stairs. The door was locked. John kicked it in 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 


91 


and there stood Lovell with our box in his hand, open, 
and the papers scattered on the bed. I seized the 

papers and John knocked the sweet-scented 

down and nearly kicked the life out of him. We 

left him lying on the floor and John sent me here to 
apologize for his mean opinion of you.” 

I was nearly beside myself with joy, and the flowing 
bowl was filled and emptied and refilled and emptied 
again before the young rebel was allowed to depart 
with a blessing and a kind message for his brother. 
Hibbard was greatly disappointed; he said he would 
have enjoyed seeing a rebel shot or shooting one him- 
self. 

I reminded him of the letter a British officer wrote 
home from India, in which he said it is “rare fun when 
you hunt a tiger, but when a tiger hunts you ” 

Dear old Hibbard ! The grass in the cemetery has 
sprung up and withered and grown again these many 
years upon your grave since your gory form was laid 
away to rest near the pioneer friends who had gone 
before you to that “bourne whence no traveller re- 
turns.” “Green grow the turf above you, friend of 
my better days!” 

The evening of the day on which the duel had been 
declared off and Lovell exposed as a spy, the United 
States steamer Shubrick, a well-armed and manned 
vessel, carrying four guns, and at the time doing cus- 
toms as well as guard duty on Puget Sound, arrived 
from across the Sound and was brought alongside the 
Hudson’s Bay Company’s wharf. On board was Mr. 
Victor Smith, collector of customs for Puget Sound 
District. Mr. Smith was a man of large information 
and of great courage and ability. He was a personal 
friend of Abraham Lincoln, and an unswerving loyal- 
ist. Immediately after tying the Shubrick to the 
wharf Mr. Smith proceeded to discharge all the offi- 
cers and the crew, save Captain Selden, the comman- 


92 


The Mystic Spring, 


der and Mr. Winship, the chief engineer. All ex- 
cept these two officers were more than suspected of 
disloyalty and of an intention to seize the ship, convert 
her into a privateer, and capture the San Francisco 
steamers referred to by Jeffries in his conversation 
with me. Lovell, who was in the secret, had kept Mr. 
Francis and Smith informed of the plot. “Miss Jack- 
son” was also a spy in the pay of the Consul. In a day 
or two a fresh crew joined the Shubrick, and the con- 
spirators went out of business. 

A few days later I called on Consul Francis and pro- 
ceeded to tell my story. The kind old gentlemen laid 
his hand on my shoulder and said: “I know all that 
you are about to say. I knew what was going on all 
the time. My detectives kept me well informed. I 
knew how sorely you were tempted to do me an injury, 
and how you refused, and I was determined that not a 
hair of your head should be hurt. Had the party 
reached San Juan Island your antagonist and his 
friends would have been taken to the guardhouse by 
our soldiers there, and, perhaps, executed. Lovell is 
a grand detective. He overheard Jeffries tempting you 
in your room that night, and did all his work well.” 

“But,” I said, “the windows and transom were 
tightly closed by Jeffries.” 

“Yes,” interposed the Consul, “but he forgot the 
keyhole. Lovell has phenomenal hearing and can see 
in the dark!” 

“Ah!” I said, “I scented him when I went into the 
hall, and was sure he was not far off.” 

“Hibbard also told me about the duel, and his part 
in the plot was to induce the gang to go to San Juan 
Island and so get them into the hands of the American 
garrison,” said the Consul. 

Mr. Francis was a man with a soul and a heart, and 
as he spoke his voice quivered with emotion, and some- 
thing like a tear glistened in his eye. “Thank God/' 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 


93 


he concluded, “the long strain is over. The rebel 
camp at Victoria is broken up and dispersed at last. 
Victor Smith and I can now take a much-needed rest.” 


Nearly all the chief actors in the stirring scenes I 
have narrated above are dead, and strange to relate, 
with one or two exceptions, all died from violence. 
Victor Smith perished in the wreck of the steamship 
Brother Jonathan, in 1865, while on his way to the 
Sound after having attended the obsequies of Abra- 
ham Lincoln. Consul Francis was killed by a fire en- 
gine at St. Thomas, Ont., and in pursuance of his 
dying request his body was brought to Victoria and 
interred at Ross Bay. Augustine Hibbard was shot by 
his partner, a man named Watt, at the San Juan Island 
lime kiln in 1869, and his body was laid away here. 
Oliver Jeffries dropped dead at Portland, Oregon. 
George Cole died of consumption in Idaho. John 
Jeffries was killed in a runaway accident at Walla 
Walla. Jerome Harper went mad and drowned him- 
self in a bath tub at San Jose, California, and Thad- 
deus Harper, after suffering for several years from 
the effects of a kick by a horse on the head, died three 
years ago. Dick Lovell went back East and accom- 
panied the Union Army to the battlefield of Gettys- 
burg, and was killed there. What became of the rest 
of the conspirators I never learned, but so far as I 
know I am the only one left of the merry party that 
forty-two years ago used to assemble at 23 and 24 St 
Nicholas Hotel, to celebrate Confederate victories. 

But, the reader will say, you call the story “Sweet 
Marie.” Who and what was she? You have not 
mentioned her once in the whole reminiscence. To 
which I reply that she trickles like a fragrant essence 
through the whole story. “Sweet Marie” was the 
brand of powerful perfume tliat Dick Lovell used on 
his handkerchiefs and clothing. 


94 


The Mystic Spring, 


MY FIRST CHRISTMAS DINNER IN 
VICTORIA. 

“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall 
find ; knock and it shall be opened unto you. For every 
one that asketh receiveth ; and he that seeketh findeth ; 
and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.’' — 
Matthew vii. y, 8. 

On the 22nd day of December, i860, nearly forty- 
four years ago, I sat in the editorial room of the 
Colonist office on Wharf Street preparing a leading 
article. Mr. DeCosmos, the editor and owner, had 
contracted a severe cold and was confined to his room 
at Wilcox’s Royal Hotel, so the entire work of writing 
up the paper for that issue devolved upon me. The 
office was a rude one-story affair of wood. It had 
been erected by a merchant early in 1858, and when he 
failed or went away the building fell into Mr. DeCos- 
mos’s hands. On the nth of December, 1858, Mr. 
DeCosmos established the Colonist, which has ever 
since filled a prominent and honorable position in 
colonial journalism. Our office, as I have remarked, 
was a rude affair. The editorial room was a small 
space paritioned off from the composing-room, which 
contained also the little hand-press on which the paper 
was printed. A person who might wish to see the 
editor was forced to pick his way through a line of 
stands and cases, at which stood the coatless printers 
who set the type and prepared the forms for the press. 

The day was chill and raw. A heavy wind from the 
southwest stirred the waters of the harbor and hurling 
itself with fury against the front of the building made 
the timbers crack and groan as if in paroxysms of 
pain. A driving rain fell in sheets on the roof, and 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 95 

drops of water which leaked through the shingles fell 
on the editorial table, swelled into little rivulets, and 
leaping to the floor chased each other across the room, 
making existence in the office uncomfortably damp. 
As I wrote away in spite of these unpleasant sur- 
roundings I was made aware by a shadow that fell 
across my table of the presence of someone in the 
doorway. I raised my eyes and there stood a female — 
a rare object in those days, when women and children 
were hardly ever met upon the streets, much less in an 
editorial sanctum. I rose to my feet at once and re- 
moved my hat. In the brief space of time that elapsed 
before the lady spoke I took her all in. She was a 
woman of scarcely forty, I thought; of medium height, 
a brunette, with large, coal-black eyes, a pretty mouth 
— a perfect Cupid’s bow — and olive-hued cheeks. She 
was richly dressed in bright colors, with heavy broad 
stripes and space-encircling hoops after the fashion of 
the day. When she spoke it was in a rich, well-rounded 
tone. Taken all in all, I sized the lady up as a very 
presentable person. When I explained to her in re- 
sponse to an enquiry that the editor was ill, she said 
that she would call again, and went away after leaving 
her card. Two days later, on the 24th of December, 
the lady came again. 

“Is the editor still ill?” she asked. 

“Yes; but he will be here in the course of a day or 
two.” 

“Ah ! well, that is too bad,” she said. “My business 
is of importance and cannot bear delay. But I am told 
that you will do as well.” 

I assured the lady that I should be glad to assist her 
in any way. Thanking me, she began : 

“My name is Madame Fabre. My husband, who 
was French, is dead — died in California. I am a Rus- 
sian. In Russia I am a princess.” (She paused as if 
to watch the impression her announcement had made.) 


96 


The Mystic Spring, 


‘‘Here I am a mere nobody — only Madame Fabre. I 
married my husband in France. We came to Cali- 
fornia. We had much money and my husband went 
into quartz mining at Grass Valley. He did not under- 
stand the business at all. We lost everything. Then 
he died” (and she drew a lace handkerchief from her 
reticule and pressing it to her eyes sighed deeply.) 
“Alas! yes, Emil passed from me and is now, I trust, 
in heaven. He left me a mountain of debts and one 
son, Bertrand, a good child, as good as gold, very 
thoughtful and obedient. May I call him in? He 
awaits your permission without.”. 

I replied, “Certainly,” and stepping to the door she 
called, “Bertrand! Bertrand! my child, come here, and 
speak to the gentleman.” 

I expected to see a curly haired boy of five or six 
years, in short trousers, a beaded jacket and fancy 
cap, whom I would take on my knee, toy with his curls, 
ask his name and age and give him a “bit” with which 
to stuff his youthful stomach with indigestible sweet- 
meats. Judge of my surprise when, preceded by the 
noise of a heavy tread, a huge youth of about seven- 
teen, bigger and taller than myself, and smoking a 
cigar, appeared at the opening and in a deep, gruff 
voice that a sea captain or a militia commander would 
have envied, asked 

“Did you call, mamma?” 

“Yes, my dear child,” she sweetly' responded, “I 
wish to introduce you to this gentleman.” 

The “child” removed his hat, and I noticed that his 
hair was cut close to the scalp. Having been duly in- 
troduced, at my request he sat down in my chair, while 
I took a seat on the edge of the editorial table, which 
was very rickety, and would scarcely bear my weight 
at the present day. 

The mother gazed at her son fondly for a moment 
and then proceeded: 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 97 

“Bertrand’s fortune was swallowed up in the quartz 
wreck, but he is very sweet and very patient, and 
never complains. Poor lad, it was hard upon him, but 
he forgives all — do you not, dear?” 

“Yes,” rumbled the “child” from the pit of his 
stomach; but the expression that flitted across his 
visage made me think that he would rather have said 
“No” had he dared. 

“That being the case I will now explain the object 
of my visit. As I have said, we have lost everything 
— that is to say, our income is so greatly reduced that 
it is now a matter of not more than $1,000 a month. 
Upon that meagre sum ijiy dear boy and I contrive to 
get along by practising the strictest economy consist- 
ent with our position in life. Naturally we wish to do 
better and then go back to Russia and live with the 
nobility. Do we not, Bertrand ?” 

“Yes,” rumbled the “child” from his stomach again, 
as he lighted a fresh cigar. 

“Well, now, Mr. H.,” the lady went on, “I want an 
adviser. I ask Pierre Manciot at the French Hotel 
and he tells me to see his partner, John Sere ; and Mr. 
Sere tells me to go to the editor of the Colonist. I 
come here. The editor is ill. I go back to Mr. Sere 
and he says, ‘See D. W. H. ; he will set you all right.’ 
So I come to you to tell you what I want.” 

She paused for a moment to take a newspaper from 
her reticule and then continued : 

“After my husband died and left the debts and this 
precious child (the “child” gazed abstractedly at the 
ceiling while he blew rings of smoke from his 
mouth) “we make a grand discovery. Our foreman, 
working in the mine, strikes rich quartz, covers it up 
again, and tells no one but me. All the shareholders 
have gone — what you call ‘busted,’ I believe? We 
get hold of many shares cheap, and now I come here 
to get the rest. An Englishman owns enough shares 


The Mystic Spring, 


98 

to give him control — I mean that out of 200,000 shares 
I have got 95,000 and the rest this Englishman holds. 
We have traced him through Oregon to this place, and 
we lose all sign of him here.” (Up to this moment I 
had not been particularly interested in the narration.) 
She paused, and laying a neatly-gloved hand on my 
arm proceeded: 

“You are a man of affairs.” 

I modestly intimated that I was nothing of the kind, 
only a reporter. 

“Ah ! yes. You cannot deceive me. I see it in your 
eye, your face, your movements. You are a man of 
large experience and keen judgment. Your conversa- 
tion is charming.” 

As she had spoken for ten minutes without giving 
me an opportunity to say a word, I could not quite 
understand how she arrived at an estimate of my con- 
versational powers. However, I felt flattered, but said 
nothing. 

Pressing my arm with her hand, she went on : 

“I come to you as a man of the world. (I made a 
gesture of dissent, but it was very feeble, for I was 
caught in the web.) “I rely upon you. I ask you to 
help me. Bertrand — poor, dear Bertie — has no head 
for business. He is too young, too confiding, too — 
too — what you English people call simple — no, too 
good — too noble — he takes after my family — to know 
anything about such affairs, so I come to you.” 

Was it possible that because I was considered un- 
redeemably bad I was selected for this woman's pur- 
pose? As I mused, half disposed to get angry, I raised 
my head and my eyes encountered the burning orbs of 
Madame, gazing full into mine. They seemed to bore 
like gimlets into my very soul. A thrill ran through 
me like the shock from an electric battery, and in an 
instant I seemed bound hand and foot to the fortunes 
of this strange woman, I felt myself being dragged 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 99 

along as the Roman Emperors were wont to draw their 
captives through the streets of their capital. I have 
only a hazy recollection of what passed between us 
after that, but I call to mind that she asked me to 
insert a paragraph from a Grass Valley newspaper to 
the effect that the mine (the name of which I forget) 
was a failure and that shares could be bought for two 
cents. When she took her leave I promised to call 
upon her at the hotel. When the “child” extended a 
cold, clammy hand in farewell I felt like giving him a 
kick — he looked so grim and ugly and patronizing. I 
gazed into his eyes sternly and read there deceit, hypo- 
crisy and moral degeneration. How I hated him ! 

The pair had been gone several minutes before I 
recovered my mental balance and awoke to a realiza- 
tion of the fact that I was a young fool who had sold 
himself (perhaps to the devil) for a few empty com- 
pliments and a peep into the deep well of an artful 
woman’s blazing eyes. I was inwardly cursing my 
stupidity while pacing up and down the floor of the 
“den” when I heard a timid knock at the door. In re- 
sponse to my invitation to “come in” a young lady 
entered. She was pretty and about twenty years of 
age, fair, with dark blue eyes and light brown hair. 
A blush suffused her face as she asked for the editor. 
I returned the usual answer. 

“Perhaps you will do for my purpose,” she said, 
timidly. “I have here a piece of poetry.” 

I gasped as I thought, “It’s an ode on winter. Oh, 
Caesar!” 

“A piece of poetry,” she continued, “on ‘Britain’s 
Queen.’ If you will read it and find it worthy a place 
in your paper I shall be glad to write more. If it is 
worth paying for I shall be glad to get anything.” 

Her hand trembled as she produced the paper. 

I thanked her, telling her that I would look it over 
and she withdrew. I could not help contrasting the 


100 


The Mystic Spring, 


first with the last visitor. The one had attracted me by 
her artful and flattering tongue, the skillful use of her 
beautiful eyes and the pressure of her hand on my 
coat sleeve; the other by the modesty of her de- 
meanor. The timid shyness with which she presented 
her poem had caught my fancy. I looked at the piece. 
It was poor ; not but what the sentiment was there — the 
ideas were good, but they were not well put. As prose 
it would have been acceptable, but as verse it was im- 
possible and not worth anything. 

The next was Christmas Day. It was my first 
Christmas in Victoria. Business was suspended. All 
the stores were closed. At that time in front of every 
business house there was a wooden verandah or shed 
that extended from the front of the building to the 
outer edge of the sidewalk. One might walk along 
any of the down-town streets and be under cover all 
the way. They were ugly, unsightly constructions, and 
I joined the aldermanic board and secured the passage 
of an ordinance that compelled their removal. Along 
these verandahs on this particular Christmas morning 
evergreen boughs were placed, and the little town 
really presented a very pretty and sylvan appearance. 
After church I went to the office and from the office to 
the Hotel de France for luncheon. The only other 
guest in the room was a tall, florid- faced young man 
somewhat older than myself. He occupied a table on 
the opposite side of the room. When I gave my order 
the landlord remarked, “All the regular boarders but 
you have gone to luncheon and dinner with their 
friends. Why not you ?” 

“Why,” I replied, with a quaver in my voice, “the 
only families that I know are dining with friends of 
their own whom I do not know. I feel more homesick 
to-day than ever before in my life and the idea of eat- 
ing my Christmas dinner alone fills me with melan- 
choly thoughts.” 


AND Other Tales of Western Life ioi 

The man on the other side of the room must have 
overheard what I said, for he ejaculated: 

“There’s two of a kind. I’m in a similar fix. I have 
no friends here — at least none with whom I can dine. 
Suppose we double up ?” 

“What’s that?” I asked. 

“Why, let us eat our Christmas dinner together and 
have a good time. Here’s my card and here’s a letter 
of credit on Wells, Fargo’s agent to show that I am 
not without visible means of support.” 

The card read, “Mr. George Barclay, Grass Valley.” 

“Why,” I said, “you are from Grass Valley. How 
strange! I saw two people yesterday — a lady and her 
‘child’ — who claimed to have come from Grass Valley.” 

“Indeed,” be asked, “what are they like?” 

“The mother says she is a Russian princess. She 
calls herself Mme. Fabre and says she is a widow. 
She is very handsome and intelligent, and,” I added 
with a shudder, “has the loveliest eyes — they bored me 
through and through.” 

My new-found friend faintly smiled and said, “I 
know them. By-and-bye, when we get better ac- 
quainted, I shall tell you all about them.” 

After luncheon we walked along Government to 
Yates Street and then to the Colonist shack. As I 
placed the key in the lock I saw the young lady who 
had submitted the poetry walking rapidly towards us. 
My companion flushed slightly and lifting his hat ex- 
tended his hand, which the lady accepted with hesita- 
tion. They exchanged some words and then the lady, 
addressing me, asked, “Was my poem acceptable ?” 

“To tell you the truth. Miss — Miss ” 

“Forbes,” she interjected. 

“I have not had time to read it carefully.” (As a 
matter of fact I had not bestowed a second thought 
upon the poem, but was ashamed to acknowledge it.)^ 


102 


The Mystic Spring, 


“When — oh ! when can you decide ?” she asked with 
much earnestness. 

“To-morrow, I think” — for I fully intended to de- 
cline it. 

She seemed deeply disappointed. Her lip quivered 
as she held down her head, and her form trembled 
with agitation. I could not understand her emotion, 
but, of course, said nothing to show that I observed it. 

“Could you not give me an answer to-day — this 
afternoon,” the girl eagerly urged. 

“Yes,” I said, “as you seem so very anxious, if you 
will give me your address I shall take or send an 
answer before four o’clock. Where do you reside?” 

“Do you know Forshay’s cottages ? They are a long 
way up Yates Street. We occupy No. 4.” 

Forshay’s cottages were a collection of little cabins 
that had been erected on a lot at the corner of Cook 
and Yates Streets. They have long since disappeared. 
They were of one story, and each cottage contained 
three rooms — a kitchen and two other rooms. I could 
scarcely imagine a refined person such as the lady be- 
fore me occupying those miserable quarters ; but then, 
you know, necessity knows no law. 

The girl thanked me, and Barclay accompanied her 
to the corner of Yates Street. He seemed to be trying 
to induce her to do something she did not approve of, 
for she shook her head with an air of determination 
and resolve and hurried away. 

Barclay came back to the office and said: “I am 
English myself, but the silliest creature in the world 
is an Englishman who, having once been well off, finds 
himself stranded. His pride will not allow him to 
accept favors. I knew that girl’s father and mother 
in Grass Valley. The old gentleman lost a fortune at 
quartz mining. His partner, a Mr. Maloney, a Dublin 
man and graduate of Trinity College, having sunk his 
own and his wife’s money in the mine, poisoned his 


5\ND Other Tales of Western Life 103 

wife, three children and himself with strychnine; but 
the strangest part of the story is that three months ago 
the property was reopened and the very first shot that 
was fired in the tunnel laid bare a rich vein. Had 
Maloney fired one more charge he would have been 
rich. As it was he died a murderer and a suicide. 
Poor fellow ! In a day or two I will tell you more. 
But let us return to the poetry. What will you do 
with it?” 

“I fear I shall have to reject it.” 

“No ! no !” he cried. “Accept it ! This morning I 
went to the home of the family, which consists of Mr. 
Forbes, who is crippled with rheumatism, his excellent 
wife, the young lady from whom we have just parted, 
and a little boy of seven. They are in actual want. I 
offered to lend them money to buy common necessaries, 
and Forbes rejected the offer in language that was in- 
sulting. Now, I ask you, implore you, to go imme- 
diately to the cottage. Tell the girl that you have 
accepted the poem and give her this” (handing me a 
$20 gold piece) “as the appraised value of her pro- 
duction. Then return to the Hotel de France and 
await developments.” 

I consented. The road was long and muddy. There 
were neither sidewalks nor streets, and it was a difficult 
matter to navigate the sea of mud. 

The young lady answered my knock. She almost 
fainted when I told her the poem had been accepted 
and that the fee was $20. I placed the coin in her 
hand. 

“Mamma! Papa!” she cried, and running inside the 
house I heard her say, “My poem has been accepted, 
and the gentleman from the Colonist office has brought 
me $20.” 

“Thank God!” I heard a woman’s voice exclaim. 
“I never lost faith, for what does Christ say, Ellen? 
‘Ask, and it shall be given you ; seek, and ye shall find ; 


104 


The Mystic Spring, 


knock, and it shall be opened.’ On this holy day — our 
Saviour’s birthday — we have sought and we have 
found.” 

This was followed by a sound as of some one cry- 
ing, and .then the girl flew back to the door. 

“Oh, sir,” she said, “I thank you from the bottom 
of my heart for your goodness.” 

“Not at all,” I said. “You have earned it, and you 
owe me no thanks. I shall be glad to receive and pay 
for any other contributions you may send.” I did not 
add, though, that they would not be published, al- 
though they would be paid for. 

A little boy with a troubled face and a pinched look 
now approached the front door. He was neatly but 
poorly dressed. 

“Oh! Nellie, what is the matter?” he asked, anx- 
iously. 

“Johnnie,” answered Nellie, “I have earned $20, and 
we shall have a Christmas dinner, and you shall have 
a drum, too.” As she said this she caught the little 
fellow in her arms and kissed him, and pressed his 
wan cheek against her own. 

“Shall we have a turkey, Nellie?” he asked. 

“Yes, dear,” she said. 

“And a plum-pudding, too, with nice sauce that 
burns when you put a match to it, and shall I have 
two helpings?” he asked. 

“Yes; you shall set fire to the sauce, and have two 
helpings, Johnnie.” 

“Won’t that be nice,” he exclaimed, gleefully. “But, 
Nellie, will papa get medicine to make him well again?” 

“Yes, Johnnie.” 

“And mamma — will she get back all the pretty 
things she sent away to pay the rent with?” 

“Hush, Jolinnie,” said tlie girl, with an apologetic 
look at me. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 105 

“And you, Nellie, will you get back your warm cloak 
that the man with the long nose took away?” 

“Hush, dear,” she said. “Go inside now ; I wish 
to speak to this gentleman,” She closed the front 
door and asked me, all the stores being closed, how 
she would be able to get the materials for the dinner 
and redeem her promise to Johnnie. 

“Easily enough,” said I. “Order it at the Hotel de 
France. Shall I take the order?” 

“If you will be so kind,” she said. “Please order 
what you think is necessary.” 

“And I — I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“What is it?” she eagerly inquired, 

“That you will permit me to eat my Christmas din- 
ner with you and the family. I am a waif and stray, 
alone in the world. I am almost a stranger here. The 
few acquaintances I have made are dining out, and I 
am at the hotel with Mr, Barclay, whom you know, 
and, I hope, esteem.” 

“Well,” she said, “come, by all means.” 

“And may I bring Mr. Barclay with me ? He is very 
lonely and very miserable. Just think that on a day 
like this he has nowhere to go but to an hotel.” 

She considered a moment before replying; then she 
said, “No, do not bring him — let him come in while we 
are at dinner, as if by accident.” 

I hastened to the Hotel de France, and soon had a 
big hamper packed with an abundance of Christmas 
cheer and on its way upon the back of an Indian to 
the Forbes house. 

I followed and received a warm welcome from the 
father and mother, who were superior people and 
gave every evidence of having seen better days. The 
interior was scrupulously clean, but there was only 
one chair. A small kitchen stove, at which the sick 
man sat, was the only means of warmth. There were 
no carpets, and, if I was not mistaken, the bed cover- 


io6 The Mystic Spring, 

ings were scant. The evidence of extreme poverty 
was everywhere manifest. I never felt meaner in my 
lif than when I accepted the blessings that belonged 
to the other man. Mr. Forbes, who was too ill to sit 
at the table, reclined on a rude lounge near the kitchen 
stove. Just as dinner was being served there came a 
knock at the door. It was opened and there stood Bar- 
clay. 

‘T have come,” he said, “to ask you to take me in. 
I cannot eat my dinner alone at the hotel. You have 
taken my only acquaintance” (pointing to me) “from 
me, and if Mr. Forbes will forgive my indiscretion of 
this morning I shall be thankful.” 

“That I will,” cried the old gentleman, from the 
kitchen. “Come in and let us shake hands and forget 
our differences.” 

So Barclay entered, and we ate our Christmas din- 
ner in one of the bedrooms. It was laid on the kitchen 
table, upon which a table cloth, sent by the thoughtful 
hosts at the hotel, was spread. There were napkins, 
a big turkey, and claret and champagne, and a real, 
live, polite little Frenchman to carve and wait. Bar- 
clay and I sat on the bed. Mrs. Forbes had the only 
chair. Johnnie and his sister occupied the hamper. 
Before eating Mrs. Forbes said grace, in which she 
again quoted the passage from Scripture with which I 
began this narration. For a catch-up meal it was the 
jolliest I ever sat down to, and I enjoyed it, as did all 
the rest. Little Johnnie got two helpings of turkey 
and two helpings of pudding, and then he was allowed 
to sip a little champagne when the toasts to the Queen 
and the father and mother and the young and rising 
poetess of the family were offered. Then Johnnie 
was toasted, and put to bed in Nellie’s room. Next it 
came my turn to say a few words in response to a 
sentiment which the old gentleman spoke through the 
open door from his position in the kitchen, and my re- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life lo;; 

sponse abounded in prevarications about the budding 
genius of the daughter of the household. Then I 
called Barclay to his feet, and he praised me until I 
felt like getting up and relieving my soul of its weight 
of guilt, but I didn’t, for had I done so the whole 
affair would have been spoiled. 

Barclay and I reached our quarters at the Hotel de 
France about midnight. We were a pair of thor- 
oughly happy mortals, for had we not, after all, “dined 
out,” and had we not had a royal good time on Christ- 
mas Day, i860? 

The morrow was Boxing Day, and none of the 
offices were opened. I saw nothing of the Princess; 
but I observed Bertie, the sweet “child,” as he paid 
frequent visits to the bar and filled himself to the 
throttle with brandy and water and rum and gin, and 
bought and paid for and smoked the best cigars at two 
bits each. As I gazed upon him the desire to give him 
a kicking grew stronger. 

By appointment Barclay and I met in a private room 
at the hotel, where he unfolded his plans. 

“You must have seen,” he began, “that Miss Forbes 
and I are warm friends. Our friendship began six 
months ago. I proposed to her, and was accepted, 
subject to the approval of the father. He refused to 
give his consent because, having lost his money, he 
could not give his daughter a dowry. It was in vain 
I urged that I had sufficient for both. He would listen 
to nothing that involved an acceptance of assistance 
j from me, and he left Vancouver Island to try his 
fortunes here. He fell ill, and they have sold or 
pawned everything of value. The girl was not per- 
mitted to bid me good-bye when they left Grass Valley. 
After their departure the discovery of which I have 
informed you was made in the Maloney tunnel, and as 
Mr. Forbes has held on to a control of the stock in 
spite of his adversities, he is now a rich man. I want 


io8 The Mystic Spring, 

to marry the girl. As I told you, I proposed when I 
believed them to be ruined. It is now my duty to ac- 
quaint the family with their good- fortune, and renew 
my suit. I think I ought to do it to-day. Surely he 
will not repel me now when I take that news to him as 
he did on Christmas morning when I tendered him a 
a loan.” 

I told him I thought he should impart the good 
news at once and stand the consequences. He left me 
for that purpose. As I walked into the dining-room, 
I saw the dear “child” Bertrand leaning over the bar 
quaffing a glass of absinthe. When he saw me he 
gulped down the drink and said : 

“Mamma would like to speak to you.” 

I recalled the adventure with the eyes and hesitated. 
Then I decided to go to Room 12 on the second flat 
and see the thing out. A knock on the door was re- 
sponded to by a sweet “Come in.” Mme. Fabre was 
seated in an easy chair before a cheerful coal fire. 

She rose at once and extended a plump and white 
hand. As we seated ourselves she flashed her burning 
eyes upon me and said : 

“I am so glad you have come. I do want your ad- 
vice about my mining venture. In the first place I 
may tell* you that I have found the man who owns 
the shares. He is here in Victoria with his family. 
He is desperately poor. A hundred dollars if offered 
would be a great temptation. I will give more — five 
hundred if necessary.” 

“The property you told me of the other day is valu- 
able, is it not ?” I asked. 

“Yes — that is to say, we think it is. You know that 
mining is the most uncertain of all ventures. You 
imagine you are rich one day and the next you find 
yourself broke. It was so with my husband. He came 
home one day and said, ‘We are rich’; and the next 
he said, ‘We are poor.’ This Maloney mine looks well. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 109 

but who can be sure? When I came here I thought 
that if I found the man with the shares I could get 
them for a song. I may yet, but my dear child tells 
me that he has seen here a man from Grass Valley 
named Barclay, who is a friend of that shareholder, 
and,” she added, bitterly, “perhaps he has got ahead 
of me. I must see the man at once and make him an 
offer. What do you think?” 

‘T think that you might as well save yourself further 
trouble. By this time the shareholder has been ap- 
prised of his good fortune.” 

“What!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet and 
transfixing me with her eyes. “Am I, then, too late?” 

“Yes,” I said, “you are too late. Forbes — that is 
the man’s name — knows of his good fortune, and I do 
not think he would sell now at any price.” 

The woman glared at me with the concentrated hate 
of a thousand furies. Her great eyes no longer bore 
an expression of pleading tenderness — they seemed 
to glint and expand and to shoot fierce flames from 
their depths. They terrified me. How I wished I had 
left the door open. 

“Ah!” she screamed. “I see it all. I have been 
betrayed — sold out. Have you broken my confi- 
dence ?” 

“I have never repeated to a soul what you told me,” 
I replied quietly. 

“Then who could have done it?” she exclaimed, 
bursting into a fit of hysterical tears. “I have come 
all this way to secure the property and now find that 
I am too late. Shame ! shame !” 

“I will tell you. Barclay is really here. He knew 
of the strike as soon as you did. He is in love with 
Miss Forbes and has followed the family to tell them 
the good news. He is with the man at this moment” 

“Curse him!” she cried through her set teeth. 

I left the woman plunged in a state of deep despair. 


no 


The Mystic Spring, 


I told her son that he should go upstairs and attend 
to his mother, and proceeded to the Forbes cottage. 
There I found the family in a state of great excite- 
ment, for Barclay had told them all, and already they 
were arranging plans for returning to California and 
taking steps to reopen the property. 

Miss Forbes received me with great cordiality, and 
the mother announced that the girl and Barclay were 
engaged to be married, the father having given his 
consent. The fond mother added that she regretted 
very much that her daughter would have to abandon 
her literary career, which had begun so auspiciously 
through my discovery of her latent talent. 

I looked at Barclay before I replied. His face was 
as blank as a piece of white paper. His eyes, how- 
ever, danced in his head as if he enjoyed my predica- 
ment. 

“Yes,” I finally said, “Mr. Barclay has much to be 
answerable for. I shall lose a valued contributor. 
Perhaps,” I ventured, “she will still continue to write 
from California, for she possesses poetical talent of a 
high order.” 

“I shall gladly do so,” cried the young lady, “and 
without pay, too. I shall never forget your goodness.” 

I heard a low, chuckling sound behind me. It was 
Barclay swallowing a laugh. 

They went away in the course of a few days, and 
we corresponded for a long time; but Mrs. Barclay 
never fulfilled her promise to cultivate the muse, nor 
in her letters did she refer to her poetical gift. Per- 
haps her husband told her of the pious fraud we prac- 
tised upon her on Christmas Day, i860. But whether 
he did or not, I have taken the liberty, forty- four years 
after the event, of exposing the part I took in the de- 
ception and craving forgiveness for my manifold sins 
and wickedness on that occasion. 

What became of the Russian princess with the 


AND Other Tales of Western Life hi 

pretty manners, the white hands and the enchanting 
eyes, and the sweet “child” Bertie ? They were back at 
Grass Valley almost as soon as Forbes and Barclay 
got there, and from my correspondents I learned that 
they shared in the prosperity of the Maloney claim, 
and that Mme. Fabre and her son returned to Russia 
to live and die among their noble kin. 


THE FIGHT FOR THE STANDARD. 

“It’s only a small piece of bunting. 

Only an old colored rag. 

Yet thousands have died for its honor. 

And shed their best blood for their flag. 

“You may call it a small piece of bunting. 

You may call it an old colored rag. 

Yet freedom has made it majestic, 

And time has ennobled the flag.” 

— The Union Jack. 

His name was William Shapard. He was a South- 
erner by birth and a house-carpenter by trade. He 
came to Victoria in 1858. He was in his prime and 
labored diligently at his calling till the war between 
the North and South broke out. Then he laid down 
his tools and took to talking about the wrongs of the 
South and the right of the Southerners to secede and 
buy and sell niggers. There were many here who sym- 
pathized with him, and in a short time our little city 
was filled with Southerners who fled hither to escape 
conscription or conspire for the overthrow of the Re- 
public. A good talker like Shapard — a keen, active 
and aggressive person such as he was — attracted the 
attention of the newcomers and he was soon the centre 


II2 


The Mystic Spring, 


of a group of men and women who formed the South- 
ern colony. But talking brought no grist to the 
Shapard mill — put no bread in the little Shapard’s 
stomachs, pants on their legs or shoes on their feet. 
Neither did it furnish the parents with presentable 
clothing or pay their house-rent. Shapard, who was 
a high-spirited fellow, would neither beg nor borrow, 
and the grass in his pasture soon became very scant. 
Work he could not while his beloved South was in 
peril, and he could not cross the line and enter the 
Southern army without consigning his wife and chil- 
dren to want. At last he hit upon a scheme the adop- 
tion of which he hoped would ensure him at least a 
living. He hired a small brick building on Langley 
near Yates Street and opened a drinking saloon called 
the “Confederate Saloon.” In front of the saloon he 
erected a lofty staff, and from the top of the staff he 
flung to the breeze a Confederate flag. This flag was 
made by the Southern ladies of Victoria and their sym- 
pathizers and by them was presented to Shapard. As 
well as I can remember, the flag represented a St. An- 
drew’s cross in blue on a red ground. Within the lines 
of the cross were thirteen stars, each star being em- 
blematic of a seceding state. The pet name of the flag 
was the “Stars and Bars.” Many people regarded 
thirteen as an unlucky number, and predicted the fail- 
ure of the Confederacy in consequence. But the re- 
tort, always ready, was that the states which rebelled 
against the British Crown in 1776 were also thirteen 
in number and they won. It is a poor rule that will not 
work both ways, and the Southerners, taking heart of 
grace from the historical example of their forefathers, 
continued the struggle with great determination and 
bravery. 

The Confederate Saloon became famous as a ren- 
dezvous for the Southerners and the boti vivants of 
other nationalities. It was noted for its generous free 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 113 

lunches, its excellent rye whiskey cocktails and its read- 
ing room. It also became noted as time ran on for its 
poker games. It was said that large sums were staked 
and lost on its tables by Cariboo miners and Southern 
refugees who were gathered at Victoria and made 
Shapard’s house their lounging place. 

Every morning at precisely 9 o’clock mine host of 
the Confederate would hoist the defiant emblem, and 
every evening at sundown he would lower it, and fold- 
ing it carefully away would lock it up over night. 

“You see,” he explained, “I have to be awful care- 
ful of that bit of bunting. It’s merely lent to me by 
the ladies of this place. I am pledged to return it to 
them when our cause is gained, and they will send it 
to Jeff. Davis as a memento of how we kept the fire of 
nationalism a-burning on a foreign shore. If I were 
to leave it out after dark some of those cerulean-bel- 
lied Yanks would steal it and then where should I be? 
I’d be disgraced forever.” 

The presence of the flag was a constant source of 
annoyance and anger to loyal Americans here resi- 
dent, and many were the plans laid to capture it, but a 
long time elapsed before an opportunity was presented. 
Mr. Francis, the American Consul, was often appealed 
to by his compatriots, but he advised them to keep cool 
and bide their time. Mr. Francis was apparently a 
very ingenuous character, but the man who picked him 
up for a fool ran a chance of being fooled himself. 
He was always on the alert — keen and watchful. To 
talk with him you would think his mind on most sub- 
jects was a blank. He could dissemble better than any 
other man I have ever met. You could never appar- 
ently excite in him the slightest interest in anything 
concerning the plans of the Southern colony. To use 
his often expression, he never “enthused,” and yet all 
the time he was storing away the information in his 
memory and preparing it for use when the time for 


The Mystic Spring, 


114 

action arrived. The Southerners always regarded Mr. 
Francis as an easy-going nobody, but in the result we 
shall see how little this estimate of his character was 
justified. 

The summer of 1862 passed away and the long win- 
ter evenings had set in. The Southern colony grew 
and the Confederate Saloon did a roaring business — 
seven days in the week with nights thrown in. The 
place was never closed, and the Confederate standard 
continued to whip the breee from 9 a. m. till sundown 
each day. My office was just back of the saloon, and 
my duties frequently forced me to remain out of bed 
until three in the morning. I would often saunter into 
the place in search of information or to refresh my 
flagging energies. I was always received by the guests 
with cordiality, and many matters concerning the plans 
of the colony to fit out privateers, or seize Mr. Fran- 
cis and send him away on a schooner, were talked over 
in my presence. Of course, I never repeated what I 
heard there, but I did resolve that I would go to any 
extreme to prevent a personal injury or indignity being 
inflicted upon or offered to my friend the Consul. 
Fortunately the occasion never arose, and I was spared 
the pain of revealing what I heard. 

I roomed at the St. Nicholas Hotel, room 7. The 
room adjoining mine was occupied by Mr. and Mrs. 
Pusey, who have already figured in these papers. A 
room across the hall on the same floor was occupied by 
a young fellow called Finlay son. I have forgotten his 
first name. He had been educated in Europe, was an 
excellent conversationalist, a good musician and a fair 
linguist. Professing to be a Southerner, he was very 
sedate in company and never resorted to extravagant 
demonstrations as news of Confederate victories or 
defeats came in. To use a Southern expression, we 
“cottoned” to each other from the start. I do not 


. AND Other Tales of Western Life 115 

think I have ever met a man who on first acquaintance 
more strongly appealed to me — who possessed the same 
magnetic attraction, or in whom I was so strangely and 
irresistibly interested. A certain dissipated writer for 
the press, one “F. F. D.,” was a remarkably entertain- 
ing and captivating man, but over him I saw ever 
hanging the shadow of a ruined life — the picture of 
wasted opportunities and a vision of the talent buried 
in a napkin. Around Finlayson there was no such un- 
pleasant environment. To my young and ardent na- 
ture he was open, frank and lovely-minded. I often 
said to myself, “If I wanted to be other than I am I 
should ask to be in all respects like Finlayson.” And 
yet, mark how I was deceived — mark how rudely my 
idol was thrown down and how completely he was 
shattered to bits so small that it would never have 
paid to try and put them together again. 

Early one morning after closing my office I called in 
at the Confederate, and Finlayson and several friends 
were leaning on the bar. They had been drinking and 
I suggested to Finlayson that it was time all sober men 
were in bed. He assented, evidently believing that he 
was sober, which he was not. So together we w'alked 
to our rooms at the St. Nicholas. 

At his door he invited me to step inside and I com- 
plied. He sank into a chair and immediately began 
to unfold a pitiful tale of moral obliquity. He told me 
that he was a deserter from the American army, hav- 
ing enlisted in 1856, and had been made a sergeant- 
major. His company was sent to California in a 
steamer called the America. At Humboldt Bay, 
whither they were despatched to fight Indians, they 
fired the ship and made off across the Siskiyou Moun- 
tains to San Francisco. There, he said, he changed his 
name, which was Wolfe, to that of Finlayson, and his 
parents being rich Philadelphians he was constantly in 


ii6 The Mystic Spring, 

the receipt of small sums of money for his support 
He continued: 

*T have been a bad son, a bad brother and a bad 
man generally, and I betrayed my country when I de- 
serted the army. It was my hand that fired the Amer- 
ica, and I have had no peace of mind since. I have im- 
posed upon you and upon the Southerners here. I am 
not a Southerner. I am a fraud. Here,” said he, 
taking a tiny phial from the depths of a secret pocket 
in his vest, ‘‘this phial contains enough poison to de- 
stroy a dozen lives. The white fluid you see there is 
prussic acid. All I need do to destroy my life is to 
place this little bottle between my back teeth and crush 
it — and in an instant I shall be dead.” 

A picture of a coroner’s inquest, with myself as the 
principal witness under suspicious circumstances, flitted 
before my eyes and I exclaimed : 

“Good gracious, Wolfe or Finlayson or whoever 
you are, don’t crush it now — wait till I get out of this.” 

“Don’t be alarmed,” he replied, “I do not intend 
to kill myself until I shall have done something to re- 
deem my character in my own eyes, if not in that of 
my country. When I shall have done that I shall 
crush the little phial and all will be over with me.” 

I retired to my room completely disenchanted. The 
gentleman who had enthralled my senses until he 
seemed to be the very perfection of manhood and good- 
ness had sunk so low in my eyes that I felt if I should 
never see him again I would shed no tears and express 
no regrets. 

Several weeks elapsed without my coming across 
Wolfe. I began to think and hope that he had left 
town, when an event took place which brought him 
vividly back to my mind. In the Star and Garter Ho- 
tel ten or twelve young men engaged on a certain Sat- 
urday evening in the month of November, 1862, in 
throwing dice for drinks. From drinks they got to 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 117 

throwing for quarters, and then for $5 gold pieces. 
This high playing, which took place in the open saloon, 
attracted a crowd of spectators, who watched with in- 
terested eyes the varying success of the players, one of 
whom, I regret to say, I was. About two o’clock in 
the morning the throwing ceased, and I left the saloon 
for my home on the James Bay side somewhat poorer 
than when I entered the place. The night was dark 
and stormy; a keen wind swept across the little town 
and the creaking signs and rattling weatherboards of 
the slightly built shacks that lined Gk)vernment Street 
kept up a deafening din. I had left the St. Nicholas 
and roomed with a family named Curtis, who owned 
and occupied a small one-story cottage on the corner 
of Birdcage Walk and Belleville Street. This cot- 
tage was removed some years ago and the flagstaff on 
the Government Square now occupies its former site. 
At that time, and for many years afterward, the block 
on which Rostien Bros, have erected a brick building 
was not side walked, and the wayfarer on arriving at 
the corner of Courtenay and Government Streets was 
compelled to turn into the road, and so pursue his 
course to Humboldt Street and the quaint little bridge 
that then spanned the sheet of water which was dig- 
nified by the name of James Bay, but which is now 
the site of the Empress Hotel. When I turned into the 
road at Courtenay Street the darkness was so intense 
that I was forced to pick my way slowly over the loose 
macadam. As I moved cautiously along I became 
aware that at least one other person besides myself 
was feeling his way over the broken rock. I paused 
and then I was certain that two persons were ap- 
proaching me, for I could see their forms dimly 
emerging, as it were, from the blackness. In an in- 
stant I was on the alert and the thought flashed across 
my mind that these men had seen me with money at 
the gaming table and had followed with the object of 


The Mystic Spring, 


ii8 

garotting and robbing me. They were almost upon me 
when I threw back my Inverness cape and made a 
motion as if to draw a weapon. I was unarmed. I 
had passed all through the perilous vigilance commit- 
tee times at San Francisco — when decent men were 
robbed and shot down like dogs, and when culprits 
were hanged in the streets by mobs — and never carried 
knife or pistol. When I started for the Fraser River 
mines in 1858 I bought a Colt’s five-shooting revolver, 
for which I paid $18. At Yale it proved an encum- 
brance to me and I “swapped” it with a crafty miner 
for an old silver watch. The watch wouldn’t go and 
I offered to sell it for $2. No one would buy and I 
threw it away in disgust, so when I was “approached” 
by the garotters on the dismal evening referred to I 
possessed neither watch nor pistol. However, al- 
though scared and nervous, I was resourceful, and as 
I swung my arm round I shouted : “Stop, or I’ll fire !” 
The men fell back into the darkness and I sprang 
toward the bridge on a keen jump. I don’t believe 
that the men followed me, but I reached the bridge and 
crossed it with the speed of an antelope, bounded up 
the steps of the little cottage, burst into the front door, 
and was soon within the four corners of my bachelor 
apartment — breathless, perspiring and trembling with 
fear and excitement, but safe. A strange feeling took 
control of me as I thought over the incident. I be- 
came impressed with the belief that one of the forms 
I had seen approaching me out of the darkness was 
that of Wolfe or Finlayson. I could not have sworn 
to his identity, but some hypnotic or telepathic influ- 
ence told me that one of the figures was his. I could 
prove nothing, but I never spoke to him afterwards, 
although I met him on several occasions. The next 
day a brief paragraph in the paper mentioned the at- 
tempted hold-up and the incident soon faded from my 
mind. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 119 

The old Star and Garter was torn down in 1865, and 
the Masons laid the corner-stone of the new hall with 
much pomp and ceremony the same year. Not more 
than two or three who took part in that event are now 
alive. Men then in their prime have long since died or 
grown old and lost all interest in wordly affairs. It 
is a melancholy reflection, but it is the way of the 
world. It is allotted to all men once to die ; and some- 
times I think that those who have crossed to the other 
side and know all about the future are more to be 
envied than pitied. Surely there can be no greater 
hell than some who are still with us carry about in 
their breasts — remembrance of duties unfulfilled, of 
wickedness unatoned for, of unkind acts unforgiven. 

The Confederate flag continued to flaunt its bright 
hues in the face of the Unionists and the Confederate 
Saloon continued to enjoy an enormous patronage. 
Shapard waxed fat and sleek and grew more defiant 
than before. The Union sentiment was outraged by 
the success of the secession movement, and when the 
news of Stonewall Jackson’s untimely death came and 
the Southerners went about the streets with crape on 
their arms and the flag over the saloon drooped sadly 
at half-mast, the Northerners held a quiet little meet- 
ing and decided that something energetic should be 
done to get rid of the rebel standard. 

A frequent visitor to Victoria was one Tom Strat- 
ton, a native of one of the Eastern States and an out- 
spoken Unionist. His home was at Port Angeles. 
Stratton was the possessor of a jet-black glossy beard 
of great length, of which he was justly proud, and 
which he passed much of his leisure time in stroking 
and smoothing with his hands. Tom was a daredevil, 
and being glib of tongue he frequently indulged in a 
wordy clash with the Southern residents. To him the 
flag was a source of great annoyance, and he some- 
times made threats as to what he would do with it if he 


120 


The Mystic Spring, 


ever got a chance. One day he told Shapard that if he 
could steal the flag he would die happy. 

“Yes,” said Shapard, “if you should steal that flag 
you will die, but whether happy or not I can’t say. At 
any rate, the flag when you steal it shall be your 
shroud.” 

Stratton made no reply, but stroked his beard and 
walked off. 

Early one afternoon five or six young men, 
strangers, entered the Confederate. They were pro- 
fessedly Southerners and boisterously cheered for Jeff 
Davis and the Southern cause. All were possessed of 
much cash and treated the landlord and all in the house 
to liberal potations of champagne at $5 a bottle. A 
poker game was in progress at one of the tables, and 
the strangers staked heavily and lost with a good 
grace. Every time a fresh bottle was opened Shapard 
was invited to “have another,” and it was not long be- 
fore he showed the effects of the frequent draughts in 
speech and gait. The treating continued and when the 
hour arrived for lowering the standard Shapard was 
unmistakably intoxicated. Whenever he made a 
movement to go outside for the flag one of the young 
fellows would invite him to “have another,” and at last 
he sank down at one of the tables and fell asleep. 

Late in the evening Shapard awoke and, remem- 
bering his flag, walked to the staff to lower it, when 
to his consternation and grief he found that the emblem 
of secession had disappeared, and with it had gone the 
gay young strangers who had been so liberal with 
money and wine. The excitement among the South- 
erners was great and a heavy reward was offered for 
the recovery of the flag, but it was never found. It 
was delivered to the American Consul by the captors 
and by him sent to Washington. 

Some weeks after the disappearance of the flag 
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“Then the Two Men Ci.inceei:) ” 




AND Other Tales of Western Life 121 

Langley Street. Seated at one of the tables was Tom 
Stratton, sleek and handsome and carefully grooming 
his long black beard. The moment Shapard’s eyes fell 
upon Stratton he took fire. He advanced to the table 
and poured forth a volume of ugly words. Stratton 
laughed in his face. Shapard continued his abuse. 

“You stole my flag,” he foamed. 

“Well, what of it?” asked Stratton, as he rose to his 
feet. 

“That’s what of it,” screamed Shapard, as he dealt 
his hated antagonist a blow full in the face. 

Stratton retorted with a blow and then the two men 
clinched. Both were strong and in the full vigor of 
life, and as they struggled and pounded and tore each 
other with their hands and teeth their anger found 
vent in savage growls and yells that resembled more 
the snarls of wild beasts than the voices of men. Over 
one of the tables Stratton was forced and went to the 
floor with a crash. In an instant Shapard was upon 
him, his knees on his chest and his thumbs forced into 
his neck. Stratton’s eyes and tongue protruded, but 
with a herculean effort he contrived to throw Shapard 
off and forcing him to the floor made him the “under 
dog in the fight.” Both were by this time covered with 
blood and their coats and shirts hung in tatters. Strat- 
ton’s glorious beard had been plucked from its roots 
and Shapard held it like a plume in his left hand, while 
with his right he pummeled the body and face of his 
antagonist, who returned the punishment with interest. 

The fight continued for some ten minutes. Tables 
and chairs were overturned and broken, crockery 
smashed and food and dishes scattered all over the 
place. The two men were most deplorable spectacles. 
At last Shapard yielded and Stratton claimed the vic- 
tory. But it cost him dear. He never was a well man 
again. His beard never grew again and in a few years 
he died on the Sound. Shapard’s business fell off after 


122 


The Mystic Spring, 


the war and he went to California, after which I heard 
of him no more. 

It transpired that Stratton, assisted by Wolfe, stole 
the flag while the young strangers, who were well sup- 
plied with American Government money, got the land- 
lord so drunk that he forgot to lower the emblem be- 
fore dark. 

Some two years afterwards I read in the San Fran- 
cisco Bulletin that a man named Wolfe had poisoned 
himself with prussic acid at the American Exchange in 
that city. I have no reason to doubt that the brilliant 
rascal who for a time captivated my senses was the vic- 
tim. 


LORD PORTMAN’S NEPHEW. 

“There is death in the pot.” — II. Kings. 

On a pleasant evening early in April, i86i, the Hotel 
de France, on Government Street in this city, was a 
scene of unwonted interest, brilliancy and activity. A 
leading citizen of Yale, a man who had been foremost 
in works and ventures of public utility, was on his way 
out of the country with the object of taking up his 
residence in California. Fortune had favored the man 
in all his doings. On leaving Yale he had been pre- 
sented with an expensive gold watch, duly inscribed, 
and a heavy gold chain, as an expression of the good- 
will of his fellow-citizens, and at Victoria he was ten- 
dered a banquet by thirty or forty friends who had 
watched his career and who, to a certain extent, had 
prospered through his undertakings. One of this good 
citizen’s achievements had been to solve the problem 
of steamboat navigation to Yale. None of the steam- 
ers of the regular transportation lines would venture 
above Fort Hope, sixteen miles below, where freight 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 123 

was discharged into canoes and barges and towed by 
manual labor to Yale. John Kurtz — for he was the 
enterprising citizen in whose honor the banquet had 
been arranged — had contended that a steamboat might 
be built that would make the passage from Victoria to 
Yale with ease and in perfect safety. He recalled the 
fact that in 1858 a sternwheel steamer had made the 
passage on two occasions during high water, and he 
argued that what had been done once could be done 
again. So he set to work and formed the Yale Steam 
Navigation Company, with a capital of $60,000. The 
money was quickly raised, and the new steamer was 
built at Laing’s ways, in this harbor, near the extensive 
mills of Brackman & Ker. On her first trip she 
skimmed the troubled waters like a huge bird. Skil- 
fully handled she avoided rocks, bars and riffles and 
landed her cargo at Yale on the second day. Return- 
ing she left Yale in the morning, and the same evening 
landed passengers and freight at Victoria. All prom- 
ised well for the new company and their new boat. 
Stock was at a premium. On all hands they were con- 
gratulated, and at the time the banquet was laid the 
Yale was preparing for another trip, and filling up 
rapidly with freight and already had all her passenger 
space taken. 

The night selected for the banquet was the close of 
a charming day, as I have said. The table was laid in 
the restaurant of the hotel and every viand and liquid 
that would stimulate and coax the appetite were there 
in abundance. 

The chair was taken by E. Grancini, a prominent 
Wharf Street merchant, and in the vice-chair was Gus- 
tave Sutro, the leading wholesale tobacco merchant 
of Victoria. Among the guests were Thomas Harris, 
the first mayor of Victoria; Geo. Pearkes, Solicitor- 
General; Lumley Franklin, who succeeded Mr. Harris 
as mayor; Capt. Jamieson, of the steamboat Yale; Wm, 


124 


The Mystic Spring. 


Power, of Yale; Hon. Dr. Helmcken, Speaker of the 
first Legislative Assembly ever convened on the British 
Pacific; Dr. Trimble, the first Speaker of our Provin- 
cial Assembly; the gifted Armor de Cosmos, after- 
wards Premier; C. C. Peaidergast, Wells, Fargo & 
Co.’s agent; Roderick Finlayson and J. W. McKay, 
of the Hudson’s Bay Company; J. A. McCrea, the 
pioneer auctioneer; J. J. Southgate, a leading mer- 
chant; “D. W. H.,” the writer of these lines; and a 
score of others whose names escape me at this writing. 

The dinner was served in the style for which the 
Hotel de France was then famous, and when the toasts 
of “The Queen” and “The President of the United 
States” (for the guest of the evening was an Ameri- 
can) had been drunk, the fun waxed fast and furious. 
Midnight struck from the hotel clock, but no one 
stirred. It had been arranged that the whole party — • 
or at least those who could find their legs — should pro- 
ceed to Esquimau, then the place of departure of the 
California steamers, and there bid the parting guest 
Godspeed. The steamer was announced to sail at six 
the following morning, and the stables had been requi- 
sitioned for teams and wagons to take the party down. 
As the night wore on the older members retired, but 
the wild revel continued, and when everyone was in a 
merry mood a card was handed to Kurtz by one of the 
waiters. The recipient excused himself for a moment 
and presently returned and, addressing the chairman, 
said; 

“An English gentleman whom I met a few days ago 
at Yale is outside, and desires to join the party if 
agreeable to all. His name is Esdale, and he is a 
nephew of Lord Portman.” 

“Bring him in, by all means,” cried one and all, and 
a young fellow of about five-and-twenty parted the 
portiere and entered. The newcomer was of medium 
size; dark, almost swarthy. He was neatly dressed, 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 125 

and had the appearance and bearing of a gentleman. 
As he advanced into the room he made a low obeisance 
to the chairman and was conducted to a vacant chair at 
the side of the guest of the evening — said chair having 
been vacated by one of the company who had found 
the conviviality too vigorous for his comfort. In a 
few minutes \jor6. Portman’s nephew was on the best 
of terms with the whole company. Such a beaming, 
sunny face, lighted up by a pair of bright, black eyes 
and a radiating smile that seemed to be “catching,” as 
one of the company remarked, for it put us all in a 
good humor and kept us there. 

“Jim” McCrea, who was a famous raconteur, had 
just told one of his characteristic stories, and the chair- 
man had sung an Italian ditty in a sweet tenor, when 
the health of “our guest” was proposed. Kurtz re- 
sponded and sat down, when Mr. Esdale rose and 
asked permission to say a few words. The request 
was granted, whereupon he delivered one of the most 
eloquent and witty after-dinner speeches that it has 
ever been my good fortune to hear. He spoke for 
only about ten minutes, but when he concluded the 
company rose and drank the health of “Lord Port- 
man’s Nephew” with a “hip ! hip ! hurrah !” and “He’s 
a jolly good fellow.” He responded with another 
witty address and wound up by telling two stories, of 
a risque nature, it is true, but so wittily drawn and 
clothed in such choice language that they seemed emi- 
nently proper. 

The most popular man at that table, with the excep- 
tion of “our guest,” was Mr. Esdale. Everyone begged 
the favor of a glass of wine with him. He had evi- 
dently dined generously before he came to us, but his 
holding capacity seemed unlimited. He drank with 
every one who offered, and was none the worse for it, 
so far as we could see. 

About two o’clock a practice then much in vogue at 


126 


The Mystic Spring, 


“stag” dinner parties was introduced. Every guest 
was required to sing a song, tell a story or dance a jig, 
and when Esdale’s turn came he did all three, grace- 
fully and well. He had a fine voice, and as he reeled 
off “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep” and “Sally in 
Our Alley” the enthusiasm knew no bounds. McCrea, 
who was noted as the town wit, was completely out- 
done by this new competitor for convivial honors and 
declared that from thenceforth he would neither crack 
a joke nor tell a story. 

Daylight was creeping in at the window when the 
rigs that were to carry us to Esquimalt drove up at the 
hotel door. Of course the drivers must have some- 
thing. So they were had in to partake of the food and 
wine, and as a consequence more than one of their 
number presently gave outward and visible signs of 
too much good cheer. Esdale, who was in prime con- 
dition, acted as host, many of the others having become 
incapacitated. I was seated near the head of the table, 
and Esdale was handing a glass of wine to a driver 
when his foot seemed to slip and he fell forward on the 
table. Quickly recovering himself, he smiled at his 
awkwardness and, declining assistance, sat down. I 
watched him narrowly and saw an ashen hue steal 
slowly over his face. His eyes rolled and then became 
fixed and stared at one of the coal-oil lamps. The next 
instant he fell heavily forward. In a moment the 
scene of mirth and revelry was changed to one of dis- 
may and confusion. Some went to the aid of the 
stricken man, others flew for a doctor. Dr. Helmcken 
and Dr. Trimble had gone home. Unfortunately there 
was a doctor in the house at the time — room No. 13, 
a young and inexperienced graduate. He was hastily 
summoned. In his ignorance he pronounced the trouble 
delirium tremens and prescribed a composing draught 
• — the very thing he should not have done, for the 
young man was suffering from a stroke of apoplexy. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 137 

Presently the inevitable occurred. Death entered as 
the Unbidden Guest and bore away the bright, witty, 
handsome and cultivated Esdale, Lord Portman’s 
nephew. 

The presence of death had a sobering influence on 
all who attended the party. The arranged excursion 
to Esquimalt was not carried out. Mr. Kurtz went 
almost unattended to the steamer, and the guests, sad- 
dened and sobered by the awful event, wended their 
ways sorrowfully homeward. 

Capt. Jamieson left the festive board early in the 
evening, and going on board his fine steamboat sailed 
for Yale. At Fort Hope Capt. William Irving, father 
of Capt. John Irving, and Frank J. Barnard, father of 
Frank S. Barnard, of this city, joined the vessel. As 
the steamer approached the first bad riffle above Hope, 
Capt. Irving was with Captain Jamieson in the pilot 
house. Just then dinner was announced, and Captain 
Irving offered to take the wheel while Capt. Jamieson 
went to the table. The offer was declined, and Capt. 
Irving had scarcely taken his seat when, with a bud 
roar, the boiler exploded, and in an instant the pride 
of the river became a helpless hulk, drifting down 
stream. A dozen people were killed or injured. 
Among the former was Capt. Jamieson, who fell at his 
post doing duty. His body was never recovered. Had 
Capt. Irving’s offer been accepted he would have been 
the victim instead of his friend. The cause of the ex- 
plosion was never known. The Yale Navigation Com- 
pany went out of business and many years elapsed be- 
fore another boat ventured to make the hazardous trip. 


128 


The Mystic Spring, 


AN ILL-FATED FAMILY. 

“Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, 

While proudly riding o’er the azure realm 
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ; 

Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm ; 
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, 

That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening prey.” 

— The Bard. 

Early in the summer of i860 the keel of a side- 
wheel steamer of light draught was laid at the Song- 
ish Indian village in Victoria harbor. The vessel was 
designed expressly for navigating the waters between 
Victoria, Harrison River and Hope. The greatest care 
was bestowed upon her construction, and one of the 
most experienced shipbuilders on the Pacific Coast 
came from San Francisco to superintend the work. As 
the vessel was fashioned into shape day by day her ele- 
gant lines won general admiration. She was meant 
to have speed, and, with this object in view, engines 
and boilers of special design and great capacity and 
strength were ordered from Glasgow before the keel 
was laid here. It was intended that the vessel should 
be ready for service by the fall of i860, but there were 
several mishaps which prevented the first or trial trip 
being made until a year later. When the hull was 
nearly completed the timbers on which it rested gave 
way and crushed three men. One died ; the other two 
lived. The hull having been raised and reset, the work 
was pushed to completion. When the time came for 
launching the vessel she was christened the Cariboo; 
but instead of gliding off she stuck on the ways and 
had to be jacked foot by foot to the water. Pier en- 
gines and boilers, which should have reached here in 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 129 

the summer of i860, did not arrive until the spring of 
the following year. The owner of the Cariboo was 
Capt. Archibald Jamieson, an experienced navigator, 
who had gone early to Oregon, where he commanded 
steamers that plied on the Columbia River. Archibald 
was a brother of Capt. Smith B. Jamieson, who com- 
manded the Fraser River steamer Yale when that ves- 
sel’s boiler exploded on the 14th of April, 1861, or three 
and a half months before the Cariboo was ready for 
service. On the ship that brought the Cariboo’s ma- 
chinery from Glasgow was a younger brother, James 
Jamieson, the baby of the family, as he was called. He 
was a tall, stalwart young Scotchman of about 24 
years, had learned the trade of engine-building at the 
works where the Cariboo’s machinery and boilers were 
made, and being also a marine engineer it was pro- 
posed to give him full charge of the machinery after a 
few trips had been made. An engineer named William 
Allen, who had been a long time out of steady employ- 
ment, was temporarily appointed as chief engineer, 
with James Jamieson as assistant. About the middle 
of July the Cariboo made her first or trial trip and de- 
veloped great power and speed. She was then 
despatched to Harrison River via Fraser River, re- 
turning with a cargo of white pine. The Cariboo’s 
performances gave satisfaction, and her owner, who 
w^as also commander, was much pleased with the craft. 

While the Cariboo was taking in cargo and booking 
passengers for her second voyage, in company with 
three or four other young fellows I chanced into a 
restaurant which stood on the corner of Trounce Ave- 
nue and Government Street, where Cullin’s cigar store 
is now. The waiter who took our orders was well 
known to me. His name was Paul De Garro, and 
despite his menial employment here he belonged to the 
nobility of France. His fellow-countrymen told me 
that he was a count who had been exiled from France 


130 


The Mystic Spring, 


by Napoleon III. when that monarch seized the throne 
and proclaimed himself Emperor. History records that 
barricades were erected in the streets of Paris by the 
populace, who were mowed down by the new Em- 
peror’s cannon until 50,000 lives had been lost and the 
empire firmly established on the blood thus shed. Paul 
De Garro was among those who opposed the new 
regime, and in consequence he was exiled with many 
others to California in 1851. He came to Victoria in 
1856 to visit the Catholic Bishop Demers. The Bishop 
had acquired a printing press, with a small quantity of 
French type, and with the assistance of a tramp printer, 
who was brought over from Puget Sound to set the 
type, two numbers of a weekly newspaper were got 
out in the French language. The title was almost as 
long as one’s arm, for it was called La Courier de la 
Nouvelle Caledonie. Among the archives of the Cath- 
olic diocese there may be preserved a few copies of 
this the first newspaper published on the British Pa- 
cific coast. Personally, I never saw a copy. It is 
worthy of remark here that when, two years later, Mr. 
De Cosmos gave birth to the British Colonist, he 
printed the first and many succeeding numbers of his 
paper on the type and the antiquated hand-press that 
had been employed in the production of De Garro’s 
Courier. 

The count was a very lugubrious-looking person at 
the time of which I write. He could not accept his 
changed fortunes with easy grace or good temper. As 
a waiter he was not a success, because he was conde- 
scending and patronizing and intensely irritable. If 
a guest objected to a dish with which he had been 
served the Count would flare up and pick a quarrel 
with the objector. After a volley of “sacres” he would 
retire to the kitchen to sulk, and the proprietor, who 
was also the cook, would come into the restaurant and 
apologize for the impatience of the waiter-count, who 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 131 

could not forget that he had once lived in a palace and 
had himself been waited upon by “vassals and slaves,” 
A peace having been patched up, the Count would 
pocket his pride and resume his duties until another 
complaint aroused his ire and started the ball again 
rolling in the wrong direction. To address him as 
“garcon” was a deadly insult, and he would never an- 
swer to any call that did not begin with “Monsieur” or 
“Count.” 

With all his brusqueness I rather liked De Garro, 
although a sight of his long, melancholy face often 
threw me into a fit of the blues. I always thought and 
said that he was entitled to sympathy rather than con- 
tempt, but many of the young fellows of the day did 
not share in that opinion, and to them it was as good as 
a play to bait the Count until he lost his temper. One 
evening I sat in the restaurant reading a newspaper, 
and the Count, who had been drinking, was in a pleas- 
ant mood and quite talkative. He opened the conver- 
sation by asking if I had ever been in Paris. I told 
him I had not. 

“Oh!” said he, “that is a place worth visiting. I 
lived there four years. I had plenty of money. My 
father’s estate had not been confiscated then and I 
went everywhere — such parties, such balls, and, ah! 
such lovely ladies I I was every night at the opera and 
the theatre and the Jardin Mabille. And then the ex- 
quisite little suppers that came after! Ah! my faith, 
but they were grand, and the champagne flowed like 
water, and the cigars, the most beau-u-tiful Havanas. 
Monsieur H., suppose you go to Paris you see things.” 

“Why did you not stay there. Count?” I asked. 

“Stay there ! What, live in the same atmosphere 
with that pig, that assassin, Napoleon? Never! never! 
He is a murderer — he killed my best friend. Attend 
to me while I tell you all. I went from Brittany to 
Paris. I was a student. I went to study medicine. In 


132 


The Mystic Spring, 


the same lodgings was a young woman — an art student 
— a handsome lady, bright, cheerful, good. We met at 
the table one day. I loved her when first I saw her and 
she loved me. We got well acquainted, and we were 
so happy we could have died for each other. I in- 
tended to marry her — God knows I did! — when I got 
of age, and had my parents’ consent. So we — well, we 
trusted one another — you understand the rest. We 
were never happy apart. We went everywhere to- 
gether. Ah 1 my dear, sweet Estelle I Some day I will 
kill the man who killed you. Well, the President of 
France — that miscreant, Louis Napoleon — seized the 
Government and made himself Emperor. This was in 
1851 — nine years ago. I objected. Although an aris- 
tocrat I was a Republican, too. I hated pomp and style. 
Barricades were thrown up and I served behind one. 
The troops came with cannon and swept away the bar- 
ricades as if they were of paper. Estelle was with me. 
There were many other women with their husbands 
and lovers. I begged her to stay away, but she would 
not. Whither her Julien went she would go. I could 
not help it. Ah! God! if I could recall that day. Well, 
we fought together. Estelle loaded my musket and I 
fired it. Presently there was a rush of cavalry. We 
tried to stop it. No use, they poured over our breast- 
works and bayoneted or trod us under their horses’ 
feet. Just as I fell I saw a cuirassier with raised 
sword strike poor Estelle on the head. I could not see 
what followed, but when I came to I saw my darling 
lying not far away, her lovely face smeared with blood 
that flowed from a ghastly wound on her head. I 
crawled to her. I raised her head in my arms. She 
was quite dead. I lay there a long time. Weak and 
wounded as I was, I supported that dear head until 
some men came to gather up the dead and wounded. 
They tore Estelle from me and threw her loved form 
into a cart with other dead bodies. I saw her no 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 133 

more. I was sent to an hospital, where I slowly re- 
covered. I was told afterward that the dead were 
interred in a common pit and destroyed with quick- 
lime. Fancy that fate for dear Estelle, my love, my 
darling — to be eaten up with lime! When I was well 
a decree of banishment was read to me and hundreds 
of others, and we were sent to California. From there 
I came here. I live with only one purpose — to return 
to France some day and strike down Louis Napoleon. 
When Estelle shall have been avenged I will die happy, 
for I feel, I know, I shall see her again in the other 
world.” 

As the Count ceased to talk the fire died out of his 
eyes, his face resumed its customary lugubrious ex- 
pression, and the entrance of a customer who wanted a 
meal interrupted a conversation which was never re- 
sumed. 

The Cariboo gold-fields at that time had begun to 
attract public attention, and thousands from all parts 
of the world prepared to go thither. Victorians shared 
in the interest felt, and among others Count De Garro 
was smitten with a desire to try his luck. Accordingly 
he resigned his position in the restaurant and en- 
gaged passage on the Cariboo for Harrison Landing. 
The steamer was announced to sail at midnight on the 
ist of August. I was at the wharf at the hour set for 
sailing. I saw De Garro pass on board. He was ac- 
companied by a huge black retriever, which was his 
constant companion. I wished the Count good luck as 
we shook hands in a farewell that was doomed to be 
our last on earth. Although steam was up at mid- 
night, the Captain had not put in an appearance. Long 
afterwards I learned that he had a presentiment or 
evil and wished to remain in port till the next day. 
From the wharf I walked to my room in Curtis’ cot- 
tage, which then stood on Birdcage Walk near Belle- 
ville Street. I retired to bed, but for the life of me I 


134 


The Mystic Spring, 


could not sleep, A little clock on the mantel struck 
one, and then half-past one o’clock, and still I tossed 
from side to side. Sleep, although wooed with ardor, 
would not come to me. I was possessed with a strange 
feeling that an indefinable, horrible something was 
about to occur. Every little while I could hear the 
Cariboo blowing off what seemed to be “dry” steam 
in long-drawn volumes and disrupting the night air 
with the shrill notes of her whistle for miles around, 
which must have disturbed others beside myself. At 
last I heard the “cher-cher-cher” of the paddles, and 
then I knew that the Cariboo was off. I listened to 
the beat of the wheels for a few minutes; they grew 
fainter and fainter as the boat seemed to approach the 
mouth of the harbor. “Now,” I thought, “I shall 
get some sleep,” and I turned over on my side to again 
woo the drowsy god when — “Heaven and earth, what’s 
that?” I exclaimed, as a rending, tearing, splitting 
sound fell upon my ears. The “cher-cher-cher” ceased 
instantly, and the house shook as from the convulsive 
throb of an earthquake. The little timepiece on the 
mantel, which had just chimed two, trembled, reeled 
and stopped, as if affrighted by the shock. In an in- 
stant I comprehended what had happened. The Cari- 
boo had blown up! I was into my clothes and out in 
the air in less time than I have taken to write these 
few lines. The first streaks of dawn had begun to 
illumine the eastern sky, and as I sped across the old 
James Bay bridge toward the water front I could hear 
the little bell on the Hudson’s Bay Company’s wharf 
ringing an alarm as if a fire were raging in the town. 
In a few minutes I reached the hook and ladder house, 
which then stood on the site of the present Board of 
Trade Building. I determined to arouse the inhabi- 
tants by ringing the bell of the hook and ladders, but 
a young lady was there before me. She had come 
from her father’s house near by and gained the rope 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 135 

first. The bell sounded the alarm which told those 
who had not been aroused by the shock of the ex- 
plosion that a calamity had occurred and there was 
urgent need for help. 

From the fire-hall I went to the wharf, and im- 
pressed a boat which I found tied to one of the piles 
and rowed out to the harbor-mouth. The dim light of 
approaching day enabled me to discern the late beauti- 
ful craft lying a helpless, misshapen mass and drifting 
with the tide just off the present site of Rithet’s Wharf. 
A few lanterns were moving fitfully among the ruins. 
The upper deck had fallen in and the lower deck had 
been blown to pieces, but fortunately the bottom was 
unimpaired, and as the wreck did not sink it was 
towed into a little cove and anchored there for safe 
keeping. In the water at the side of the steamer we 
found the dead body of Jas. Jamieson, the second 
engineer. I examined the corpse closely, and discov- 
ered that while one eye had been blown entirely out, 
the remaining eye was intact and staring with an ex- 
pression of horror and alarm, showing that just as 
death claimed its victim he was aware of the grim 
messenger’s presence, but too late to avert his fate. 
Capt. Jamieson had disappeared, nor was any trace of 
him found for many days, when the sea gave up his 
mutilated form. Henry Gray was the Fraser River 
pilot of the Cariboo. He had just left the captain at 
the wheel and gone into a room adjoining the wheel- 
house to trim the binnacle lamp when the boiler burst, 
j Gray fell with the ruins of the upper deck into the hold 
and escaped with a few bruises, but the captain, stand- 
ing not three feet away, was taken, A passenger stood 
at the side of the boiler, conversing with the second 
engineer. When the steam and smoke had cleared the 
passenger found himself near the spot where he stood 
when the explosion occurred, while the engineer had 
been killed. How true is the Scriptural saying, “One 


136 


The Mystic Spring, 


shall be taken and the other left!” The bodies of the 
chief engineer and mate were found among the 
freight. They must have died instantly. Pieces of the 
boiler, the iron of which was of unusual thickness, 
were picked up on the boat and a few fragments were 
found on the shore. What remained of the shell of the 
boiler was deposited on the beach near the tragic 
scene. I saw it lying there thirty-five years after the 
calamity. It was covered with barnacles and may be 
still there. 

I searched among the ruins for Count De Garro, 
but he was nowhere to be found, although the mattress 
on which he slept, saturated with blood, was shown 
me. The steward said that De Garro took his big 
dog into the room with him. As we conversed the dog 
made his appearance, having been picked up while 
swimming in the water, into which he must have been 
blown by the force of the explosion. The animal 
bounded at once to the spot where his master had last 
slept and stretching himself on the mattress snapped 
at all who approached. He refused food and friendly 
overtures, even from me with whom he was well ac- 
quainted, but lay there growling and moaning. He 
was lariated at last and dragged ashore. For many 
days he haunted the wharves and the restaurant where 
the Count was employed, and finally he disappeared 
and was never seen again. The Count’s mangled 
body was brought ashore one day and deposited in an 
unmarked grave in the old cemetery. Six persons lost 
their lives by this disaster. 

The coroner’s inquiry clearly established that the 
cause of the explosion was too little water in the boiler. 
When the steam was blown off in vast volumes the 
boiler was emptied, and when the water was turned in 
it fell on red hot plates with the natural result. 

The Jamieson family was an ill-fated one. There 


AND Other Tales of Western Life ■'■I37 

were originally six sons, five of whom came to the 
Pacific Q)ast. One of the brothers was lost in the 
falls of Willamette River in 1857. Smith B. was lost 
by the explosion of the Yale in 1861. Archibald and 
James were killed on the Cariboo, and a fifth brother 
lost his life by the explosion of the steamer Gazelle 
in Oregon. The sixth, in 1861, was a clergyman in 
Scotland, and was alive when I last heard. Thus 
perished five out of six of as “braw laddies” as ever 
left a Scottish home to seek their fortunes abroad — so 
young when they were called away, as Dickens wrote 
when Thackeray died, that the mother who blessed 
them in their first sleep blessed them in their last. 

On a recent afternoon I visited the old cemetery on 
Quadra Street and strolled for a few minutes among 
the graves of those that lie buried there — 

“Each in his narrow cell forever laid.” 

Many of the headstones marked the resting-places of 
men and women whom I had known in the past, whose 
hands I had often clasped in friendship’s close touch, 
whose voices it was ever a delight to hear, and who 
have gone now to solve that problem which, sooner or 
later, all must solve — ^the great mystery of the Here- 
after. My mind was filled with solemn thoughts as 
I mused upon the changes that have taken place since 
the first grave was dug, and I could not help saying 
aloud to myself, “May we not hope that the most des- 
titute in spiritual knowledge while upon earth has 
reached a higher plane in spiritual life?” I stooped 
to copy an inscription from a graven headstone when 
a blithesome schoolboy, bag on back, burst through 
the gate and, whistling as he ran, “There’ll be a hot 
time in the old town to-night,” passed quickly out of 
sight The rain was falling fast and a chill breeze 


138 


The Mystic Spring, 


swept across the cemetery as I completed my task and 
prepared to leave. This is what I copied : 

In Memory of 

SMITH BAIRD JAMIESON, 

Who lost his life by the explosion of the Steamer Yale 
on Fraser River, 14th April, 1861. 

ALSO 

ARCHIBALD JAMIEON, 
and 

JAMES BAIRD JAMIESON, 

Who are interred here, and who lost their lives by the 
explosion of the Steamer Cariboo in Victoria 
Harbor, 2nd August, 1861. 


Three Brothers, Sons 
of the late 

ROBERT JAMIESON, 

Brodrick, Isle of Arran, Scotland. 

The Cariboo passed into the hands of the late Capt. 
Frain, by whom she was renamed the Fly. The 
Marine Department objected to the change, but per- 
mitted her to be called by the double name, Cariboo- 
Fly. Capt. Frain owned the steamer Emily Harris 
and employed both vessels in freighting coal from 
Nanaimo to Victoria. One day in 1874 two Indians 
came ashore at Salt Spring Island in a boat. They re- 
ported that they formed part of the crew of the Emily 
Harris, and that the boilers of the vessel had exploded 
and the captain was killed. The steamer was on the 
way to Victoria with a cargo of coal. The story was 
not believed, and many have always thought that the 
Indians murdered the captain and sank the steamer. 
Nothing, however, was ever revealed to support this 
theory. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 


INTO THE DEPTHS. 

“This is the place. Stand still, my steed, 

Let me review the scene, 

And summon from the Shadowy Past, 

The forms that once have been.” 

— Longfellow. 

When I first saw Yale, in July, 1858, it was a town 
of tents and shacks, and had a population of about 
5,000 miners, traders and gamblers. A few months 
ago I stood on the townsite, and dwelt in memory 
upon past scenes and incidents. The population had 
dwindled to a few score, and most of the houses gave 
evidence of that decrepitude which is the accompani- 
ment of age and infirmity. The population was en- 
tirely changed — not a soul remained of the busy multi- 
tude that moved and had their being at Yale forty-six 
years ago. Everything had altered save the cruel 
river, the everlasting hills and the rocky banks through 
which the stream rushes with impetuous velocity and 
sullen roar on its journey to the ocean. 

As I moved along the road I came to a huge boul- 
der upon which Riley, the Australian barrister, and I, 
in the long ago were wont to recline and smoke our 
pipes, exchanging stories of our earlier life and specu- 
lating as to the future. I took a seat on the rock and 
my mind was soon busy with the past. As I mused it 
almost seemed as if my old-time acquaintance sat by 
my side once more, and that we were passing again 
through the exciting and melancholy episode which I 
am about to relate. 

I recalled that one pleasant evening in July, 1859, we 
two boon companions sat on this identical toulder and 


140 


The Mystic Spring, 


indulged in day-dreams. The month was a dry and 
hot one, and vegetation in and about Yale was scant 
and parched. The river had been very high in June, 
but was now falling rapidly, and the floating logs and 
trees which during the highest stage were borne 
swiftly towards the sea in vast numbers, were begin- 
ning to fall off, and at the time of which I write 
scarcely offered an obstruction to the navigation of the 
river by canoes and skiffs opposite and below the town. 
A mile or so above Yale the river rushes through a 
canyon or gorge, and the water, confined and con- 
strained to narrow limits, becomes a foaming, seething 
torrent which no boat that was ever built could stem 
and no swimmer, not even a Leander, could breast. 

As my companion and I sat quietly chatting on this 
particular evening we observed approaching us from 
the town four figures. As they came nearer the fig- 
ures assumed the shape of men and women, two of 
each sex. All were very young, and the women, if not 
pretty, were at least interesting looking, very neat and 
trim in appearance, with their long hair hanging loose 
over the shoulders after the fashion of the time. The 
men wore new blanket coats, although the weather 
was warm. The girls were dressed in becoming print 
gowns and wore coquettish-looking straw hats. As 
the party approached our resting-place we rose and 
bared our heads. The young men also took off their 
hats and wished us good evening. Almost at once we 
seemed to become acquainted, and in ten minutes knew 
all about one another that was worth knowing. 

The young men said they were brothers, named Gil- 
man, from some place in Oregon. The young women 
were their wives — blushing brides only a few weeks 
previously. They had heard of the fabulous wealth of 
the Fraser River bars, and had come to try their for- 
tunes, having arrived the day previous by canoe from 
Hope, sixteen miles farther down the river. There 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 141 


was something so ingenuous and confiding about the 
four that I took to them at once. Had they dined? 
No; they had pitched their tents a short time before, 
and were looking for a place where they could get a 
meal — all the eating-houses being closed, as the hour 
was 8 o’clock. I invited them to my shack and soon 
slices of bacon were sizzling in the pan and the aroma 
of coffee filled the evening air with its fragrance. 

After the meal the girls insisted upon washing the 
dishes, and, with the aid of a candle stuck in a potato, 
they soon had put everything to rights, and the pots 
and pans were ready for the next meal. Then we all 
sat down in the evening air and discussed prospects. 

The Gilman boys were full of hope and expectation. 
They had come to Fraser River to mine and make a 
fortune, and then go back to Oregon and invest the 
money in farms. Such a thing as failure did not 
enter into their thoughts. If some men could make 
money at mining why should not others? and, again, 
why should they not be among the others ? The wives 
would keep house for them while they mined and take 
care of the gold as it was won. The programme was 
an attractive one, and it had captivated these young 
people. 

At an early hour the visitors took their leave and 
retired to their tents, which they pitched not far away. 
In the morning, bright and early, I heard a clear so- 
prano voice singing the glorious hymn, 

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 

Let me hide myself in thee.” 

As the notes rose and fell and then rose again and 
floated away in the crisp mountain air, my mind car- 
ried me back to a home in the far-away East where 
that hymn was often sung by a voice quavering with 
age, and which has long since been hushed on earth, 


142 


The Mystic Spring, 


but which, I trust, has joined the choir invisible in 
another and a better land. 

“Riley,” asked I, “do you hear the voice?” 

“Faith, I do,” replied he, “and it’s mighty refreshing 
to listen to the sound of Christian worship in this 
heathen country.” 

Tossing aside his blankets he hurried into his 
clothes and went outside to reconnoitre. The singing 
by this time had ceased, and we could see the four 
young people seated about a rude table in front of 
their tent partaking of an early breakfast. Having 
completed our own repast we walked over to our 
neighbors’ tents. The men had gone to town, leaving 
the girls to clear away and wash up the dishes, which 
they were now doing. 

After a few brief words about the weather, Riley 
ventured to ask which of the two was the vocalist. 

“We both sing a little,” replied the elder sister. 
“Our father is a Methodist clergyman, and we used 
to sing in his choir.” 

“Oh!” said I, “the voice that I heard this morning 
enchanted me. It carried me thousands of miles away 
and landed me in the midst of my own home circle.” 

“It was Bertha who sang this morning,” said the 
younger of the two. “My name is Caroline.” 

“Well,” said Riley, “if she can sing like that she 
ought to go to London — such voices are in demand 
there at a big figure.” 

At this moment the young men returned. They 
were in high glee. They had bought a Chinook canoe 
for a small sum, and were making arrangements to go 
through the canyons to the gold diggings above, for 
which they would start in a few days. During the 
night it had been arranged that the wives should go 
back to Oregon and there await the coming of their 
lords, who fully expected to have made their fortunes 
by the fall. Poor fellows! I wonder how many 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 143 

ardent, youthful fellows ascended Fraser River in 
those memorable days in chase of an ignis fatuus 
which they had ever in view but never overtook. 

That evening one of the girls produced a guitar, 
and she and her sister sang several touching hymns; 
but I can only now remember two, “Rock of Ages,” 
and “Flee as a Bird.” They were lovely singers, and 
their voices attracted an audience of many miners and 
a few women, who listened with interest and pleasure 
to the sweet strains, frequently manifesting their ap- 
proval by clapping. 

As the days dragged on Riley and I passed many 
happy hours in the company of the Gilmans, and grew 
to like them very much. All four were quite unso- 
phisticated, having been brought up in a small village, 
but they were very nice and kind and well bred. One 
evening they invited us to supper. The “table” was 
a packing case, which was covered with newspapers in 
lieu of a cloth. The girls sat on a small trunk, while 
we four men reclined on the ground, and many were 
the jocose remarks indulged in by the company at the 
odd situation. After supper we had some music. 
Riley proposed a game of whist, but our hosts and 
hostesses could not play cards. The next day but one 
the young fellows were to start for the canyons, taking 
with them a supply of provisions and tools. The even- 
ing before they got away they were entertained at our 
tent. Riley had got some pork chops — the only vari- 
ety of fresh meat in the market — and garnished with 
onions and beans they were served up. At the very 
first mouthful one of the ladies turned pale, gasped 
and hurried into the bush. The second lady, who had 
also taken a mouthful, followed her sister immediately. 

“What in the world’s the matter with them?” asked 
Riley. 

I, who by this time had tasted the meat, exclaimed, 


144 The Mystic Spring, 

“Why, the pork’s fishy — the beasts were fed on sal- 
mon !” 

And so it turned out. The keeper of the herd had 
fed the swine upon fish, and the result was the nastiest 
dish that could be placed before human beings. Did 
the reader ever taste fishy pork?. If you have, I pity 
your sensations. If you have not, don’t. 

Our supper was spoiled, of course, but we managed 
to scare up some bacon and made a meal on that with 
bread and butter and slapjacks. 

In the morning early the Gilman boys got off. I did 
not see them go, but they voiced a cheery good-bye as 
they passed our tent, to which we replied by shouting, 
“Cheer, boys, cheer!” The packing had been done 
over night, and the girls had arranged for a passage 
in a canoe to Hope, where they were to embark in 
Capt. Wright’s steamer Enterprise for Victoria. Some- 
thing occurred that prevented them leaving on that 
day, and they took quarters in an hotel for the night. 
We had agreed to see them off in the morning, and had 
risen early. 

I was busy with the fire outside the tent when I 
heard a footstep approaching on the trail. I looked up, 
and presently saw a sight that filled me with alarm. 
Near me was one of the Gilmans — wan, ragged, and 
in a complete state of collapse. He staggered rather 
than walked, and sinking down almost at my feet he 
buried his face in his hands and great sobs shook his 
frame while he groaned in anguish and despair. 

“Riley,” cried I, completely unmanned, “come here, 
quick.” 

Riley was soon out of bed, and took in the situation 
at a glance. He saw a fellow-being in distress. Now 
Riley’s panacea for all ills was brandy, just as some 
mothers’ ever ready remedy when anything goes 
wrong with the children is a dose of castor oil. 

“My God!” he exclaimed as he flew back into the 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 145 

tent, quickly returning with a bottle of his panacea. 
He raised the forlorn youth’s head, and forced a few 
drops of the fiery fluid into his mouth. In a few min- 
utes the boy calmed down, and between his disjointed 
sentences and incoherent utterances we at last learned 
that while poling the canoe through one of the riffles 
in the canyon the day previous the frail craft struck a 
rock and was split in two. The narrator said he con- 
trived to lay hold of one of the pieces, but his brother 
disappeared beneath the foam, and was seen no more. 
The survivor floated on the fragment into an eddy and 
at last got ashore in an exhausted state, and crawled 
back to our tent. 

His grief was pitiful to behold, and while we were 
doing all in our power to relieve his distress, he was 
naturally greatly concerned to devise means for break- 
ing the news to the girls. Riley was at length deputed 
to tell them, and the boy and I followed ten minutes 
later. When we reached the hotel the girls were in 
tears and quite hysterical. Both rushed into the boy’s 
arms, and sobbed as though their dear little hearts 
would break. The rough miners gathered around, 
and many eyes were moistened at the spectacle of hu- 
man misery. Bertha (the drowned boy was her hus- 
band) was in a state of complete prostration. Her sis- 
ter, forgetting her own grief, attempted to soothe her 
by quoting a few appropriate lines from Scripture, and 
the landlady besought her to remember that in the 
violence of her grief another life might be imperilled. 
It was some time before we could bring them to realize 
that to longer remain on the river would be folly — 
besides, their money was running short, and we prom- 
ised that if the body of the lost one should float down 
we would accord it a Christian burial. The steamer 
Enterprise was announced to leave Hope for Victoria 
the next day at noon, and it was decided that the party 
should leave Yale by canoe early the next morning. 


J 


146 


The Mystic Spring, 


One of the most reckless and profane men on the 
river at that time was Dave Marshall, who kept a 
gambling house on Yale flat. Gambling of every de- 
scription was carried on openly, and many were the 
miners who were inveigled into the dens and stripped 
of their dust. Faro, three-card monte, keno, chuck- 
a-luck, and all other imaginable games of skill or 
chance were carried on without check from the au- 
thorities, who used to remark that gambling made the 
camp lively. I remember one evil-visaged wretch who 
presided over the chuck-a-luck table, which is a game 
played with loaded dice. It is so simple that a greeny, 
who is sure that he can win, soon finds to his sorrow 
that he can only do so when the operator wills. I saw 
a man named Evans lose $1,300 at this very game one 
evening in 1858. Fortunately he was not a miner, but 
a well-to-do man from San Francisco, so he got very 
little sympathy. I saw another man who had come up 
the river with a wife and three children deprived of 
every cent. Marshall returned him $20 to pay his way 
out of the country. 

There was a man named “Major” Doran who was 
accustomed to hang about Marshall’s. He was a little 
fellow, but was apparently full of grit and wicked- 
ness. Rumor said that he had been a pirate. To 
amuse himself he would sometimes fire off his revolver 
point-blank at the stores and houses, not caring if any 
one should be struck by the bullets. One night a peace- 
ful citizen, who had retired to his bed, had the end of 
one of his fingers clipped off by one of these wantonly 
fired bullets, and there were several narrow escapes 
from death and injury from the same cause. 

On the main street of Yale, Doran, Marshall and 
other gamblers arranged a scheme to secure the money 
of a merchant named Emerson. He was an elderly 
man and, having sold his stock to advantage, was pre- 
paring to leave the river with a considerable sum — 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 147 

about $4,000, I think. The villains hired a room and 
ran a partition across the rear from side to side. In 
the bottom of this partition they put a shifting plank. 
In front of the partition they placed a table for the 
dealer, and on the table they set a faro box, the cards 
in which were manipulated in full view of the players. 
Now, behind the partition was concealed a confederate 
whose duty it was to stock a second faro box. When 
the bets had all been made the banker at the table, by 
a species of sleight-of-hand, would pass his box to the 
confederate, who would, in turn, pass up the prepared 
box from behind the partition, and the bank would 
rake in the money. It is scarcely necessary to say that 
Emerson was deprived of all his wealth in one night, 
and left the camp impoverished and miserable. 

One night there was a great commotion on the flat. 
A man while passing from his tent to a store had been 
set upon, beaten and robbed. His calls for “help” 
were heard, but the night was pitch dark, and those 
who hurried to the scene of the shooting were unable 
to see their hands if held before their faces. I joined 
in the rush, and after groping my way through the 
darkness reached the victim’s side. He had been badly 
choked, and all that he could manage to articulate was 
“The Major, the Major.” Of course everybody 
imagined at once that the culprit was Major Doran, 
and a search for him was instituted with lanterns and 
naked candles. At last he was discovered standing 
at the bar of Marshall’s house. The crowd poured in, 
and one of the party, named Conger — a short, stocky 
man, of great strength and quiet demeanor — laid a 
hand on the Major’s shoulder. 

Doran swung quickly round with the exclamation, 
“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that we want you,” replied Conger, as the 
crowd closed in upon the two. 

“Take your hand oflP, see !” yelled Doran, and quick 


148 


The Mystic Spring, 


as thought he whipped out a revolver and pointed it at 
Conger’s head. The crowd fell back. Mobs are al- 
ways cowardly. Conger alone stood his ground. 

“Get back,” shouted Doran, “or I’ll kill you — see!” 

Conger kept his eye full on Doran’s, and quietly 
said : 

“You had better come with me.” 

“If I had you in the States I’d make a culander of 
your body,” shouted the Major. 

Conger laid his hand upon the revolver between the 
nipple and the cock, so that were the trigger pulled 
the cap would not explode. To the surprise of every- 
one Doran yielded without another word, and Conger 
made him a prisoner. He could not endure the fire of 
Conger’s eye. The Major spent several days in jail, 
but nothing could be proved against him. He shortly 
afterward left the river, his reputation as a dangerous 
man having vanished when he surrendered so tamely. 

The year before coming to Yale Conger had visited 
the Holy Land, and he never tired of relating his ex- 
periences there. He was an odd genius, but a very 
good man and a devout Christian. 

Now it happened that Dave Marshall, having made 
much money through the Emerson and other deals, 
decided to take a trip to California, and it also hap- 
pened that he had engaged the only canoe that was 
available for the trip to Hope on the day that the Gil- 
mans wished to descend. I saw Marshall about taking 
the Gilman party down. He was full of sympathy, 
although a hard, rough man, and agreed to hand them 
over to Capt. Wright at Hope without charging a 
cent. So they all embarked in the canoe at the river 
front, two Indians acting as the crew. Instead of 
starting at the hour agreed upon, Marshall said good- 
bye to so many friends that he got drunk, and de- 
tained the canoe until darkness had nearly set in. 
Navigation between Yale and Hope is always danger- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 149 


ous, even in broad daylight. In darkness it is doubly 
so. On this occasion the river was in an ugly frame of 
mind, a slight rise having taken place, and many trees 
were passing down. As the canoe moved away Riley 
and I took an affectionate and tearful farewell of the 
little party of friends. We kissed the girls, and 
pressed the boy’s hands till they must have ached. The 
last I saw of Marshall he sat near the stern with a 
black bottle at his lips and waving his hat to his boon 
companions on shore. The poor girls waved their 
tear-stained handkerchiefs to us as the boat swung 
around Sawmill riffle, and the party passed from view 
forever ! 

What happened after the canoe went out of sight 
will never be known by mortal man. The next day 
a canoe man on his way up from Hope, found a paddle 
floating in an eddy, and presently a black felt hat. He 
brought both to Yale. Someone said the hat was 
Dave Marshall’s, and when the man was told of the 
departure of the canoe with Marshall and the girls 
the day before, he said that the party had not reached 
Hope when he left there. The greate.st possible in- 
terest was aroused to ascertain the fate of the party, 
and Indians in canoes were despatched to examine the 
river banks and bars. They returned in a day or so 
with a roll of blankets and a woman’s straw hat — the 
last having been worn by one of the girls. 

Some weeks after the party had disappeared, and 
while the sad event which had hurried those bright 
young people and that sin-worn man into watery 
graves was still fresh in my mind, an Indian came to 
me with a strange story. He said that about twenty 
“suns” (days) before he was coming up the river 
when he saw standing on the shore near Texas Bar, 
on the opposite bank to where he was, a young white 
klootchman (woman). She seemed in great distress, 
and was crying bitterly, wringing her hands and 


The Mystic Spring, 


150 

screaming. The Indian said that he had to pass 
around a bend of the river before he came to a place 
where there was a safe crossing. He lost sight of the 
woman for a few moments, and when he came again 
in view of the spot where she had stood she was not 
to be seen, nor could he find any trace of her having 
been there except the marks of small feet in the sand. 
Asked as to the color of her dress, he pointed to a blue 
flannel shirt which I wore and said, “all the same as 
that.” He added that she had long black hair that 
streamed over her shoulders. Bertha Gilman wore a 
blue dress, and had long black hair! My theory has 
always been that Marshall, in his drunken antics, up- 
set the frail boat and that all found a watery grave 
except Bertha, who managed to get ashore and went 
mad from exposure and grief. When she saw the 
Indian approaching, the unfortunate girl plunged into 
the river and was borne away by the swift current. 

Many years afterwards, while seated in the smok- 
ing apartment of a Northern Pacific sleeper, I told this 
melancholy story of early adventure. One of my 
listeners was a middle-aged man from Oregon. He 
told me that he was a little boy when the Gilmans 
went to Fraser River, and he remembered well the 
consternation and grief that were caused in their re- 
spective families by their strange and unaccountable 
silence. “This is the first intimation,” he added, “I 
have ever had of their fate. The fathers and mothers 
on both sides are long since dead, and I fancy that 
there are no relatives of the lost people now resident 
in their home town.” 

The whistle of an approaching train aroused me 
from my reverie. Riley and his pipe vanished, and as 
I rose from the boulder I took a long look at the cruel 
canyon and the wild waters that foamed and dashed 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 151 

ag^ainst its narrow sides. Then I knocked the ashes 
from my pipe, returned my spectacles to their case, 
heaved a deep sigh, and turned my back upon the 
scene of one of the most eventful incidents of my 
eventful life. “So runs the world away.” 


THE SAINT AND THE SINNER. 

Why did everyone refer to him as “Old Jackson?” 
All the other boys on Yale flat were known as “Bill,” 
“Jack,” or “Sam,” or “Pete.” Surnames were seldom 
used or needed. Christian names abbreviated an- 
swered all purposes for identification, reference or 
receipt. If there were half a dozen fellows in the 
camp with the same prefix, then some striking charac- 
teristic of manner, gait or speech was tacked on to 
desigpiate which man was meant. But this man Jack- 
son was never called anything except “Old Jackson.” 
If he had a baptismal name I never knew it — at least, 
not until I saw him sign his full cognomen under pe- 
culiar and painful circumstances. He was not old 
either — scarcely thirty — but he had a grave, quiet, ab- 
sorbed way with him. He had come through with his 
own train of fifty or sixty pack animals from Cali- 
fornia. He had driven them across the then trackless 
Bad Lands of Montana and the sage brush of Wash- 
ington Territory, had watered them at the Columbia 
River side by side with the wild buffalo; had pene- 
trated the savage Spokane region, where, a year be- 
fore, an American general with his command had been 
ambushed and slain by the hostile tribes who roamed 
the alkali prairies on the borders of Washington and 
which extend into our own province. Jackson owned 
the train and, as the world went then, was regarded as 
rich. He brought with him a number of packers and 


152 


The Mystic Spring, 


armed men who were desirous of trying their luck at 
the Fraser River mines, then lately discovered. On 
the way across the party had encounters with the na- 
tives. They lost two men and two were wounded. The 
dead men were buried in shallow graves after a rude 
burial service had been read over them. The wounded 
Old Jackson insisted on bringing along. He cast 
away the freight that two of the mules ^re on their 
backs, substituting for the packs stretchers on which 
the poor fellows reclined. The average day’s journey 
of a pack train is fifteen miles. To relieve the 
wounded Old Jackson reduced the day’s journey of his 
train to ten miles and pitched camp each day early in 
the afternoon. Other pack trains from Oregon over- 
took and passed Jackson’s. His assistants grumbled. 
They were anxious to test the new diggings and ar- 
gued that unless greater speed was put on all the rich 
claims would be taken up and the whole country would 
be under ice and snow before they should reach the 
Fraser. But Jackson was firm. He would not make 
haste while the wounded men were incapable of help- 
ing themselves. To abandon them would be to ensure 
their speedy death at the hands of the savages, who, 
thirsting for human gore and scalps, hung like wolves 
on the flanks of the train. Some of his force deserted 
and joined other trains; but Old Jackson crawled 
along at the ten-mile gait, and it was not until late in 
September that he reached the Fraser and found that 
the packers ahead of him had disposed of their flour, 
beans, and bacon to the miners and traders and that 
the market was glutted with supplies of all kinds. He 
did not complain, but stored his goods at Lytton and 
Yale and sent his animals out to grass on the Thomp- 
son. A few of them died, but the humanity of Old 
Jackson saved most of his train, and the wounded men 
as well. When the packers who had passed him on 
the plains reached their journey’s end their animals 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 153 

were so run down that they were unable to withstand 
the rigors of an interior winter, and hundreds died 
from exposure. Alvarez, a rich Mexican, brought to 
the country 125 loaded mules. He stored the goods 
at Yale, and then proceeded toward Hope, sixteen 
miles lower down Fraser River, where he proposed to 
winter the train. He swam the animals through the 
ice-cold current and built huge fires on the bank, where 
the mules as they emerged from the water were rubbed 
down. All but three of these valuable animals, chilled 
through and through, died in a few hours. Jackson’s 
animals passed through the winter in good shape, and 
the men who had condemned his slowness now ap- 
plauded his judgment and humanity. He placed the 
train on the trail between Yale and the Upper Fraser 
and made heaps of money during the following two 
years. 

Old Jackson was a very peculiar man. He was bet- 
ter educated than most of the men of his vocation, and 
his was a silent, unobtrusive personality. Often he 
would sit for hours in a group around a bar-room 
stove when his mind seemed far away and he neyer 
uttered a word or joined in the conversation until he 
was appealed to, when having replied in monosylla- 
bles he quickly relapsed into silence. He drank little, 
swore not even at a refractory mule, and gambled not 
at all, but he read a great deal. I do not know where 
or how I got the impression into my head, but I al- 
ways looked upon Old Jackson as a man who, like 
most silent men, although slow to anger, would be a 
dangerous character if once aroused. This idea was 
confirmed on a dismal winter evening, when a num- 
ber of persons, to escape the pitiless pelting of a 
storm, had congregated for warmth about a huge red- 
hot sheet-iron stove in Barry’s saloon. Among the 
company on that evening was an elderly American 
who was known to his companions as “Judge” Rex-* 


154 


The Mystic Spring, 


nolda. It was given out that at one time in his life he 
had been a man of some influence, that he had worn 
the ermine and dispensed justice, and that, which was 
still better, in his earler days he was an honest law- 
yer, On this particular evening the “Judge,” who 
was much the worse for liquor and was in a loquacious 
mood, was relating to the assembled miners an inci- 
dent in his California career. To illustrate his story 
the old man rose to his feet and swung his long arms 
about after the manner of a political demagogue, 
while the “boys” who sat around listened with wide- 
open faces to the stream of turgid eloquence that is- 
sued from his mouth. The “Judge” had reached one 
of his flights of half-drunken oratory when the front 
door of the saloon was thrown violently open and a 
blast of piercing wind tore into and through the room. 
The company turned towards the door and saw stand- 
ing there the figure of a man of medium height. 
His garments were covered with snow ; a Mexican 
sombrero was drawn over his eyes and his whole 
appearance was that of one who had travelled a long 
distance through the pelting of that awful tempest. 

As he stamped on the floor to relieve his boots of 
the weight of snow that had gathered upon them he 
threw a keen glance around. Then he removed the 
slouch hat which half-concealed his features. One 
look into that face was enough for me. It was a face 
on every line of which was stamped the mark of sin 
and ruffianism. The man who sat next to me shud- 
dered as he whispered: “It’s Tom O’Neil!” 

The name was one that had inspired terror in many 
hearts in California and Texas, and the appearance 
at Yale of the man who answered to it was regarded 
as an evil omen. I had never seen the man before, 
and I felt that I would not die of grief if I should not 
see him again. While this thought was running 
through my mind the desperado, still holding his hat 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 155 

in his hand, advanced toward the stove. Room was 
made for him as he came forward, and he soon had 
a choice of half-a-dozen chairs. Having selected one 
he threw back his overcoat, and after another glance 
around the group, remarked: 

“I walked up from Hope to-day. It’s sixteen mile, 
I hear, but seems to me as it was a hundred.”. He 
paused for a moment as he held his open hands 
towards the stove to warm them, and then continued: 
“What did I came for? A picnic? Not much. I 
come for a man.” 

A shudder ran through the group. 

O’Neil, who didn’t seem to notice the agitation his 
words had caused, went on as if talking to himself : 

“Yes, I’m after a man — leastwise, he’s what some 
people calls a man. He threw dirt on me in Californy, 
and I’ve followed the varmint here to make him scrape 
it off. His name is — let me see, what’s his name ? Oh ! 
yes, his name’s one Reynolds — Jedge Reynolds he 
calls hisself, I reckon — a tall, big man what has a red 
nose and is much given to chin music. Perhaps none 
of you fellows don’t know the man when you see him.” 

I stole a glance at Reynolds. He had ceased to talk 
and had fallen back in his seat when O’Neil appeared 
at the door. As I looked I saw him cowering in his 
chair with his hands before his face, apparently try- 
ing to reduce his figure into as small a compass as 
possible. 

“Yes,” said O’Neil, “he’s my meat when I finds him. 
Do you uns know what he did to me? He sentenced 
me to the chain gang in Stockton for six months. 
Wot had I done? I only put a bullet into a man’s leg 
as had refused to drink with me. He couldn’t a-treated 
me much wuss if I’d killed the man. I hear he’s here. 
Does any one know a man hereabouts which his 
name’s ‘Jedge’ Reynolds?” 

No one answered. 


The Mystic Spring, 


156 

O’Neil keenly scanned the group again, and his eye 
swept along until it fell upon the quivering form of the 
old man. 

“Wot do you call that objeck? Give it a name!” he 
snarled, pointing to Reynolds. “Seems like he’s got 
the fever an’ ager,” 

Still no answer. 

“Then I’ll take a look for myself,” and rising from 
his seat the ruffian drew the old man’s hat from his 
head and cast it on the floor. 

I looked at Reynolds. His face was the color of 
pine wood ashes, and he trembled like a leaf as he 
raised his hands imploringly. 

With a cry like that of a wild beast at the sight of 
its prey O’Neil sprang forward and clutched Reynolds 
by the throat with one hand while with the other he 
drew a Colt’s six-shooter from its sheath, cocked it 
and pointed it full at the other’s head. 

“My God!” cried Reynolds, pleadingly; “Tom — 
oh! Tom, you would not murder me. Say you wouli 
not, Tom. Oh! say it’s all a joke, dear, good Tom. 
Say you don’t mean it — that’s a good boy. I’m an 
old man, Tom. Look at my gray hairs and spare me.” 

“Curse ye,” foamed O’Neil, “yer had a lot of mercy 
on me, didn’t yer. Yer put me in prison and ruined 
my prospeks for life. I’ve follered yer fer a thou- 
sand mile, and now I’ve got yer.” 

“Oh! oh!” wailed the old man, piteously; “let me 
go this time. Tommy, dear boy. You don’t mean to 
kill me, do you? I always said you were a good boy 
at heart, only you were misled. You would not harm 
a hair of my poor old head, would you, Tom? Just 
think what an awful thing it is to kill a human being 
— especially an old man.” 

O’Neil raised his pistol again and pointed it full at 
his victim’s head, and Reynolds sank on his knees to 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 157 

the floor, grasped his assailant’s feet, and, as he grov- 
elled there, continued to pray for mercy. 

“No,” cried O’Neil. “You’ve got just half a minute 
to say yer prayers.” 

“Tom! Tom! dear Tom,” wailed Reynolds, “make 
it a minute — give me sixty seconds.” 

“Yer’d better hurry,” vociferated the cold-blooded 
wretch. “There’s only a quarter of a minute left.” 
Reynolds burst into tears and fell over backward. As 
he lay there he feebly pleaded: “Someone pray — 
pray as my poor old mother used to pray — for me.” 

“Time’s up!” roared O’Neil. He raised his weapon 
and took deliberate aim at the prostrate form. While 
this scene was being enacted I sat speechless and 
rooted to my chair. I had seen death in many forms, 
and imagined that I was proof against any horror, but 
the prospect of seeing a man’s brains blown out in 
cold blood was too much for me, and, indeed, for the 
whole company, since no one moved, but just gazed 
helplessly on the scene. 

“One, two, th ” shouted the desperado. 

And then a strange thing happened. Like a flash 
the muzzle of the pistol was struck upward and the 
ball intended for Reynolds lodged in the ceiling. The 
next instant I saw O’Neil in the grasp of a man. He 
struggled to release himself, and a volley of oaths 
poured from his wicked mouth. The two fell to the 
floor as in a death grapple, the intruder beneath. 
O’Neil, whose pistol had fallen to the floor, reached 
for his bowie knife, but before he could draw it from 
its sheath the under man turned him over and pinned 
him to the floor. In another moment O’Neil was re- 
lieved of his bowie knife (his pistol having been taken 
possession of by one of the bystanders), and was 
allowed to rise. Panting for breath he sank into a 
chair. 

Then I saw that the victor was Old Jackson! He 


158 


The Mystic Spring, 


had interfered in time to save Reynolds’ life and dis- 
arm the desperado. 

Reynolds left the river the next day and Tom O’Neil 
apologized to Old Jackson and became one of his best 
friends. But the taint of ruffianism was too deep in 
Tom’s system to be entirely eradicated by one dis- 
comfiting circumstance, as the following incident will 
show : 

There was a little negro barber at Yale who was 
known as “Ikey.” He was a saucy and presumptuous 
creature, with a mischief-making tongue in his head. 
Into Ikey’s shop one day entered Tom O’Neil. 

“Barber,” quoth he, “I want yer to shave me.” 

“Yeth, sah,” said Ikey, “take a seat.” 

“And, barber,” continued Tom, drawing a revolver 
and placing it across his knees, “if yer draw so little 
as one drop of blood I’ll shoot yer.” 

The barber, fortunately, did not cut the vagabond, 
and so escaped with his life. In narrating the inci- 
dent Ikey said: “If I’d a cut that man ever so little 
I made up my mind that I’d cut his throat from year 
to year. It would ha’ been my life or his’n, and I was 
shore it wouldn’t a been mine.” 

One afternoon about two years subsequent to the 
occurrences I have narrated above, I strolled slowly 
along Yates Street in Victoria. About the last person 
I expected to meet was Old Jackson, and yet as I 
neared the corner of Government Street I almost ran 
against him. 

“I was looking for you,” he remarked, “all day yes- 
terday. I got down the day before from Yale and 
wanted to see you badly.” i 

“What’s the matter?” I asked. 

“I’ll tell you,” he replied. “I’ve sold my pack-train 
and intend to go to California. I was too late to catch 
the steamer and shall have to wait three weeks before 


, 'AND Other Tales of Western Life 159 

another chance will come for getting away. I am 
very ill to-day. My left side feels as if there was a 
lump of ice inside of me. I went to Dr. Helmcken 
this morning and he told me I must go to bed and stay 
there, that I am threatened with pneumonia.” 

Together we walked to the Hotel de France and 
went to his room. He breathed heavily and was very 
weak. 

“1 feel that I shall never get over this trouble,” he 
said. “I don’t think that I shall live long. I have 
some property and I want you to get me a lawyer so 
that I may make my will.” 

I summoned George Pearkes, and after two or three 
interviews the terms of the will were arranged and 
the lawyer took the paper away and deposited it in a 
safe. 

From that day Old Jackson never left his bed, and 
the doctor said that his trouble was quick consump- 
tion. 

One day, about a month after the will was drawn, 
Jackson handed me a letter and asked me to post it. I 
gazed at the superscription carelessly, and saw that 
it was addressed to “Thomas O’Neil, Yale, British 
Columbia.” 

He must have detected a look of surprise in my face, 
for he remarked in an explanatory manner: 

“Tom’s not such a bad fellow, after all. After you 
left the river we became good friends and I got to 
like him. This letter tells him to come right down, 
for I want to see him before I die.” 

The letter was mailed about the loth of December, 
and two days before Christmas Tom O’Neil walked 
into the hotel. He had changed but little. If any- 
thing, he was more villainous-looking than before, 
and he had the same swaggering, devil-may-care air 
that I had observed when I first saw him in Barry’s 
saloon at Yale. He was shown to the sick room. In 


i6o The Mystic Spring, 

the evening I saw him at dinner. His manner was 
quieter and more subdued, and I thought — only- 
thought, mind you — that his eyes were red as if from 
crying. The next day we were told that Jackson was 
sinking and might go off at any moment. O’Neil 
was constantly at the sick man’s bedside, and in a 
rough but kindly way did all he could to relieve the 
distress of his friend. But the end drew rapidly near, 
and just before daylight on Christmas morning I was 
summoned from my room by a message that Old 
Jackson was dying and wished to say good-bye to me. 
I responded at once. 

O’Neil stood at the head of the bed looking down 
on the face of the sufferer. His eyes were suffused 
with tears and his whole frame shook with emotion, 
which he found it difficult to control. I could not un- 
derstand his agitation. Was it assumed or real? Could 
it be possible that this desperado — this murderer at 
heart, if not in deed — this social outcast, at the men- 
tion of whose name women shuddered and the cheeks 
of strong men blanched — was it possible that his 
wicked mind was open to generous impulses and emo- 
tions ? Mentally I responded, “No ; he is humbugging 
the friend about whom he has woven a strange spell 
that death alone can break.” I was scarcely civil to 
O’Neil. He looked out of place in a death chamber, 
at least in a death chamber that he had not himself by 
one of his murderous acts created. 

“He’s goin’ fast,” O’Neil whispered as I entered. 

The sick man opened his eyes and gazed long and 
fixedly at Tom. Then he turned his head feebly to me 
and said in a low voice, “Be kind to him when I am 
gone.” 

I was startled. There was something so extraordi- 
nary in the request, coming as it did from a man whom 
I had learned to respect for his goodness of heart and 


AND Other Tales of Western Life i6i 


bravery in staying the hand of the ruffian for whom 
he now pleaded. 

“Yes,” Jackson continued, “be good to him. He 
never had a chance. His mother died when he was 
a small boy and he ran away and came West to escape 
a cruel step-mother. It was not his fault if he grew 
up bad. He never meant to do half that he threatened 
to do. If he has done wrong he has suffered for it. 
I have forgiven him and if the rest will forgive him 
he’ll do better.” 

O’Neil in a paroxysm of sobs flung himself from 
the room. 

“Will you promise me?” urged the dying man. 

“Yes,” I said, most reluctantly, “I will do what I 
can.” 

A smile stole across his face. He tried to extend his 
hand, but it fell back on the counterpane. 

“The will,” he said, “it will explain all.” 

At the time of which I write a narrow passage or 
alleyway extended from the northern side of the Hotel 
de France on Government Street to Broad Street. 
The White House now stands where that alley ran, 
and the hotel and the Colonial Theatre then occupied 
the Government Street front now covered by Spen- 
cer’s store. At the Broad Street end of the alley 
there stood a story-and-a-half frame building occu- 
pied by nuns who were attached to the Catholic dio- 
cese, then presided over by Bishop Demers, a courtly 
and godly man of gentle demeanor and blameless life. 
Until a few days ago I was under the impression that 
the nuns’ building had disappeared before the march 
of improvement, but a visit to the rear of the old 
Masonic hall and a careful examination of a dilapi- 
dated frame structure that stands there revealed the 
fact that the building occupied by the nuns forty- 
three years ago is still standing. It is old and rickety, 


The Mystic Spring, 


162 

and must soon succumb to the ravages of time, but its 
value as an historic memento is unquestioned. 

In a miniature tower on the roof of the nuns’ home 
there swung a tiny bell, which was rung at stated peri- 
ods during the day and evening to remind communi- 
cants of their duties and to summon the faithful to 
prayer. The first gleam of dawn on that Christmas 
morning was welcomed by the glad ringing of the 
little bell. The sound fell on the ear of Old Jackson 
as he lay dying on his bed. He half raised himself 
and then fell back on the pillow. 

“George,” he feebly moaned, “do you hear? It’s 
our old schoolbell ringing. It’s time to go home.” 

He paused for a moment and then went on : “I’m 
choking for air. Oh! Give me a chance. Open — 
please open that window and let in the air.” 

Someone raised the window and then there was 
borne in on the early breeze the sound of voices sing- 
ing. The Holy Sisterhood on that lovely Christmas 
morning were chanting the morning prayer begin- 
ning, “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace 
among men.” 

As the voices rose and fell in soft and gentle ca- 
dence the sick man raised himself on his elbow, the 
better to listen. When the voices ceased the bell re- 
sumed its call. 

“Yes, George,” said Old Jackson. “Let’s get our 
books and go home. Dear mother will be waiting.” 
He turned on his side and faced the wall. When the 
bell ceased to ring Old Jackson had indeed “gone 
home.” Let us hope that he found his dear mother 
waiting to guide his footsteps to the foot of the 
Throne. 

The next day Old Jackson was placed in the ceme- 
tery. After leaving the cemetery we repaired to the 
hotel, where Mr. Pearkes read the will. It ran some- 
thing like this ; 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 163 

“I give and bequeath to my brother, George Jack- 
son, sometimes known as Thomas O’Neil, all my prop- 
erty, real and personal, that I die possessed of, the 
only stipulations being that he shall erect a suitable 
stone over my grave, recording thereon my name, age 
and birthplace, and try and reform. 

“James Jackson.” 

The property amounted to between $7,000 and 
$8,000 in gold, all of which the bank paid over to 
O’Neil the following day. He returned to the Main- 
land and resumed his evil courses. Three years later, 
at the diggings on the Big Bend of Columbia River, 
he had become so reduced by intemperance that no 
one feared him, that he was voted a dangerous nui- 
sance by the miners. A mule was procured, a rope 
passed around the animal’s body, to which the des- 
perado’s legs were tied, and he was sent out of the 
camp with instructions never to return on pain of 
death. He was never heard of again, by me at least. 
Perhaps he perished in an attempt to reach civiliza- 
tion. 

The other day I visited the cemetery. The des- 
perado did not erect a stone to the memory of his 
brother, and the grave is unmarked and undistinguish- 
able. 


HAPPY TOM. 

“So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear. 
Farewell remorse ; all good to me is lost. 

Evil, be thou my good.” 

— Milton. 


The morning was bright and warm. I had risen 


164 


The Mystic Spring, 


early, and after a dip in an eddy in front of Yale flat 
was slowly picking my way along the bar toward a 
trail that led to the bench where the principal business 
houses were located when I saw approaching a tall 
youth of perhaps eighteen years. He leaped from 
boulder to boulder as he advanced, seeming to scorn 
the narrow path which led around the rocks. He was 
active enough for a circus acrobat, I thought, as I 
paused to watch his agile movements. As w'e neared 
each other the young man began to whistle, pouring 
forth from his lips most melodious sounds. The airs 
he selected were from songs that were popular at the 
time, and the execution was so exquisite and harmon- 
ious that I paused to listen so that I might draw in 
every note. When he found that he was observed the 
youth ceased to warble, and dropping from a boulder 
on which he was perched to the ground, bashfully 
awaited my approach. 

“Good morning,” I said. “You must have struck it 
rich — you seem so happy.” 

“No,” he replied, “I haven’t struck it rich. On the 
contrary, I have found nothing.” 

“Then why do you whistle?’ I asked. " 

“Oh ! because it makes the time pass pleasantly. Be- 
sides, I never let trouble bother me — I shed it like a 
duck sheds water from its back. I can’t imagine how 
any man can be unhappy so long as he walks straight 
and acts right. I don’t mean to do anything wrong in 
all my life, and if I don’t have good luck I’m never 
going to fret.” 

“That’s the proper spirit,” I said ; “stick to that and 
you’ll come out all right. What’s your name?” 

“Tom,” he said, with a funny look in his eyes. 

“Tom — Tom what?” I persisted. 

“No, not Tom Watt — just Tom — that’s all.” 

“But surely you have another name?” 

He shook his head with a light laugh as he said. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 165 

“Aly name’s only Tom in this country. Call me that 
■si^ I’ll always answer.” 

-'No,” I said; “I’ll call you Happy Tom. Your 
philosophy is sound and good and your face shows 
that you have a light and happy heart.” 

He laughed again and passed on down the bar. As 
he went along I saw that his clothes were ragged and 
his boots in holes. A week elapsed before I met the 
boy again. He then walked along the main street 
warbling a popular tune with an energy and skill that 
were marvellous. He filled the air with melody and 
people ran to their doors to listen to the sweet sounds. 
Tom was certainly a charming performer, and it was 
not long before he became a popular favorite. No 
party or dance was complete without Tom and his 
remarkable whistle. He was an exemplary young 
man. He would neither drink liquor nor smoke. He 
was witty without being coarse, rude or offensive, 
“Swear words” were strangers to his lips, and hon- 
esty of purpose and kindly thought shone from the 
depths of his clear eyes and lighted up his ingenuous 
countenance. I had many conversations with him and 
found him very intelligent. His uniform good nature 
was magnetic, and he grew upon me so that I soon 
got to like him very much. When I left the river in 
i860, one of the last hands that I enclosed in a good- 
bye grasp was Happy Tom’s, for the name had stuck 
to him. His eyes glistened as he approached the side 
of the canoe and wished me good luck. 

“Tom, old boy,” I exclaimed, “adhere to your prin- 
ciples and you’ll be one of the foremost men of the 
colony. You’ve got it in you. Give it a chance to get 
out. Don’t drown it with bad whiskey or kill it with 
worse company.” 

The happy fellow began to whistle an operatic air. 
I 1 ien he switched off upon “Home, Sweet Home.” As 
my; frail bark plunged into the foaming current and 


i66 


.The Mystic Spring, 


began to glide swiftly down stream he sent after me 
Charlie Mackay’s “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” and when I 
looked back just as the canoe began to turn the first 
bend in the river he was perched on a huge boulder, 
still pouring forth his happy soul in sweet and far- 
reaching melody. 

If any one should have then predicted that when 
Happy Tom and I next met it would be under cir- 
cumstances of a most awful and soul-terrifying charac- 
ter I would have called him a false prophet or a fool. 
Yet it so turned out, as the sequel will show. 

In the summer of 1872 there arrived at Victoria 
from England a young lady named Ellen Forman. 
She was the daughter of Aid. Forman, a resident of 
James Bay. She bore a high certificate as an English 
public school teacher, and was as pretty and dainty as 
a pink. The young lady was not long in securing a 
school at a fair salary, where she gave entire satis- 
faction. About this time her father married again, 
selecting for his second wife a most estimable and 
worthy woman of middle-age, and the couple with the 
young school teacher went to reside at Mr. Forman’s 
house on Kingston Street. The house was a one-story 
affair containing six rooms and a kitchen. About this 
time exciting news came of the discovery of a sup- 
posed rich vein of silver ore near the town of Fort 
Hope. Silver was then worth $1.10 an ounce and the 
shareholders in the new discovery were each rated in 
public estimation as worth at least a million dollars. 
Among the owners in the mine were George Dunbar, 
Sewell Moody, Wm. Sutton and Thomas Chooley. 
These men were regarded as far and away the richest 
men in British Columbia. A test shipment of ore to 
San Francisco yielded $208 to the ton, and it was re- 
ported that there were many thousand tons of as rich 
rock in sight.. The owners I have named came to 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 167 

Victoria one day to sell shares, which they had no^ 
difficulty in doing. Aid. Forman and the visitors were 
thrown much together, and in an evil moment Forman 
invited Chooley to his house and introduced him to his 
daughter. The father was dazzled by the reputed 
wealth of the mine owner, and the young girl, per- 
haps, was anxious to lay aside her books and exchange 
the little, unpretentious dwelling on the James’ Bay 
side for a palace with servants and fine clothes and 
diamonds galore. It was a case of love at first sight. 
Chooley was at least twenty years older than Ellen 
Forman. He was strong and stout and masterful, 
while she was pretty and petite and shrinking in her 
manner. But as love is said to delight in contrarieties, 
the difference in age, habits and dispositions proved no 
obstacles to an early union. In a few weeks the two 
were married amid the blare of trumpets, the glare of 
Chinese lanterns and the popping of champagne corks. 
All predicted a brilliant and happy career for the pair. 
They were treated and toasted and feasted, and if old 
shoes and showers of rice could ensure happiness Mr. 
and Mrs. Thomas Chooley ought to have been the hap- 
piest pair of mortals on earth. Among the presents 
was a solid silver tea set made of metal from the Fort 
Hope mine. They went from here to San Francisco, 
where they put up at a leading hotel. While there a 
serious quarrel occurred, due to the bridegroom’s un- 
justifiable jealousy. He asserted that his wife did not 
love him, and to his dying day no argument or proof 
could induce him to change his mind. The idea was 
absurd and unjust. They returned to Victoria, and 
in due course a child was born at Forman’s house, 
where the pair resided. The coming of the child pro- 
duced no change in Chooley. He treated his pretty 
wife with distrust and cruelty. When Forman re- 
monstrated with him Chooley drew a revolver and 
threatened to shoot him. He was restrained and left 


i68 


The Mystic Spring, 


the house with his wife and child. In a few days a 
peace was arranged and the Chooleys went back to the 
Forman house. 

About this time it began to be rumored that the 
mine was not as rich as had been supposed. The vein 
had been probed, was found wanting in high-grade 
rock and showed signs of “petering out.” It was also 
observed that Chooley’s wealth, which was believed 
to be inexhaustible when he was married, had taken 
unto itself wings and flown away to the realm of un- 
profitable investments. As his means vanished 
Chooley became more brutal to his wife and abusive 
to her parents. Instead of the baby exerting a soften- 
ing influence it made him harder. The sorrowful little 
wife was patient and strove bravely to mellow the 
fierce and wicked disposition of the man whom she had 
married. He repelled all overtures. It was even said 
that he beat her on more than one occasion, and that 
he and Forman had come to blows in consequence. 
The parties continued to inhabit the little house on 
Kingston Street, where Chooley, who had now begun 
to drink heavily, terrified all by his wild threats and 
beastly language and actions. 

The evening of the 22nd of January, 1874 (just 
thirty years ago), was dark and dismal. Several 
inches of snow had fallen during the day and walking 
was most unpleasant. About the hour of 6.30 o’clock 
on the evening in question word reached my office that 
Aid. Forman had been shot by Chooley. 

In an instant I was on the alert, and a few minutes’ 
quick run brought me to Forman’s house. I knocked 
at the door. There was no response. I turned the 
handle — the door was locked. I ran round to the 
kitchen and tried that door ; it was locked, too. I en- 
deavored to raise a window, but all was fast. As I 
passed round to the open front door again two police- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 169 

men came up. From them I got the information that 
Chooley had shot Forman and that the wounded man 
had fled to a house on the opposite side of the street, 
where he lay dying. Chooley, they added, had barri- 
caded himself in Forman’s house and was heavily 
armed. The police kicked in the front door and were 
met with two or three pistol shots fired in quick suc- 
cession. The constables retreated, and Chooley ap- 
peared at the opening, pistol in hand. After fastening 
the door he again disappeared. The police sur- 
rounded the house and proposed to wait for daylight 
before renewing the assault. 

I walked to the opposite house, and there lay For- 
man on a lounge. Every breath that he drew caused 
the warm blood to surge upward from a wound in his 
side. He had been shot through the left lung and was 
making a dying deposition. In substance he said that 
when he came home to dinner at six o’clock that even- 
ing Chooley was roaring drunk. He had taken pos- 
session of the dining-room, and a revolver, cocked, lay 
on the table by his side, while a demijohn of liquor 
stood on the floor. He refused to allow the table to 
be set in the dining-room, and for peace sake Mrs. 
Forman laid the cloth in the kitchen. Forman, his 
wife, and Mrs. Chooley, with her wee one on her knee, 
sat down to dinner and were conversing in an under- 
tone about the best course to be pursued under the dis- 
tressing circumstances when Chooley suddenly ap- 
peared at the door leading from the kitchen to the 
room in which he was. With a fearful oath he aimed 
the weapon at Forman, who, fork in hand, was in the 
act of conveying food to his mouth. The ball passed 
through Forman’s hand, and the wounded man with a 
cry of agony rose to fly. As quick as thought the 
wretch fired again, the ball this time passing through 
Forman’s body. As the women and Forman ran from 
the room Chooley fired once again, the ball passing 


170 


The Mystic Spring, 


through a loose fold of the baby’s blanket, making a 
hole, but doing no further injury. The whole party 
found shelter at a neighbor’s house, where Forman 
died the following morning. 

I returned to the Forman house after having heard 
the deplorable story and found the police still inactive 
and disposed to await the coming of day before re- 
suming operations. Indeed, the militia had been sent 
for to form a cordon about the house. At this moment 
a little Englishman named Kay volunteered to enter 
the house and secure the murderer if a window could 
be lifted. After several efforts the kitchen window 
was raised and Kay’s small figure vaulted through the 
opening into the dark apartment. He found the din- 
ing-room door closed but not locked. Gently pushing 
the door open it encountered an obstacle. The obstacle 
proved to be Chooley’s body, for he was lying dead 
drunk across the doorway. Kay required but little 
space through which to squeeze his small frame, and 
once inside he leaped on the murderer with a yell and 
held him until the police, bursting in a door, entered 
and secured him. 

Chooley was brought to trial. He was followed to 
and from the scene of trial by the execrations of a 
multitude who sympathized with the wretched family. 
His lawyer was insulted while on his way from court 
on the first day of trial, and threatened with bodily 
injury, so intense was the feeling. The jury was not 
long in deliberating and when a verdict of guilty was 
rendered the spectactors were transported with delight. 
Mr. Justice Gray passed sentence of death, which was 
to be inflicted six weeks later. Chooley took his sen- 
tence with calmness ; his only defence was that he had 
been tricked into marriage and that his wife had been 
untrue to him. 

Ten days before the day set for execution a plot 
to liberate Chooley was discovered. It was found that 


AND Other Tales of Western Life lyt 

the guard and wardens had been corrupted and that 
at a fixed hour of the night the death-watch wei;^ to be 
overpowered, the prison doors thrown open and 
Chooley hurried to a steamer and taken to the Ameri- 
can side. The plot failed and new guards and wardens 
were placed in charge at the prison, which stood on 
the site of the present Law Courts, Three days be- 
fore the arrival of the day on which Chooley was to 
suffer I was admitted to the death cell. I found the 
man calm, but fully impressed with the idea that he 
had been wronged by Forman, who knew the state of 
his daughter’s heart before she married him, I rea- 
soned with him without avail. His one absorbing 
thought was that he had acted within his rights in com- 
mitting the murder — that he was merely an instrument 
to punish Forman. He told the same story and ex- 
pressed the same belief to his clergyman, whose minis- 
trations he readily received and in which he expressed 
belief. As I was leaving I casually remarked that I 
once resided at Yale. 

“Yes,” he said, “I knew you there.” 

“Do you know,” I answered, “that I have been told 
by a hundred different persons that you were there in 
my time, and yet I cannot recall your features.” 

His eyes rested on the floor for a moment as if he 
were in deep thought. Then he raised them to mine 
and said : 

“Are you quite sure that you never met me on 
Fraser River?” 

“Quite,” I replied. 

Again he seemed to drop into deep thought. Then 
he rose to his feet. The setting sun shone through the 
little grated window that admitted air and light to the 
cell, and a golden beam danced like a sprite along the 
white-washed wall. The doomed man raised a hand 
as if he wished to grasp the fleeting ray. When he 
turned to me again his eyes were filled with tears. J 


172 The Mystic Spring, 

“And you don’t remember me?” he said, sorrow- 
fully. 

“No, I cannot recall a line of your face.” 

“Perhaps this will aid your memory,” he said. And 
then from his lips there issued a stream of delightful 
notes that reminded me of the story of the diamonds 
and flowers that fell from the mouth of the good 
young woman in the fairy tale. 

I leaped to my feet, surprised and overcome by the 
revelation that the music conveyed. 

“Good heavens!” I cried, “you don’t mean to say 
that you are — you are — ‘Happy Tom ?’ ” 

“The same,” said he. “Happy no longer but the 
most dejected and miserable wretch on the whole of 
our Maker’s footstool! Fifteen years ago 1 was the 
merriest and happiest man in the colony. To-day I 
am a miserable felon” (he pointed to the heavy 
shackles that encircled his ankles), “and am about to 
die. After you left Yale I fell into bad company and 
took to drinking and gambling, and here I am at last — 
the natural end of all such fools. Had I been sober 
I would never have married that woman, and there 
would have been no murder.” 

He paused and burst into tears. In the midst of his 
grief I ventured to ask him if he would withdraw his 
words about his wife. 

“No,” he fiercely shouted, “I withdraw nothing.” 

At this moment one of the guards informed me that 
my time was up. As I extended my hand the convict 
said : 

“Mr. H., I have one request to make of you. Will 
you come and see me hanged on Friday?” 

“No !” I replied ; “ask anything else and I will grant 
it ; but not that — not that!” 

“It’s my last request — I insist,” he urged. 

“Oh! I cannot,” I replied. 

“What?” he said, caressingly, “you will not come 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 


173 

and see poor Happy Tom — the boy you christened in 
the long ago — die like a man! Come; say you will. 
I shall never ask anything more of you.” 

I yielded at last ; and on an early spring morning, 
when Nature had recovered from her long winter 
sleep and the song-birds had mated and nested and 
were bursting their throats with songs of gladness, 
and the sun had just peered above the eastern rim 
of the globe, as if to witness the gruesome proceeding 
in the old jail-yard at Victoria, they led Thomas 
Chooley — the Happy Tom of my earlier days — ^trussed 
as fowls are trussed for the oven — ^to be hanged by 
the neck until he was dead in accordance with the 
sentence of the court. As he crossed the yard to the 
scaffold his frame showed not the slightest tremor, his 
face wore its natural hue. As he advanced his eyes 
wandered over the group of officials and spectators 
until they encountered mine. A smile of recognition 
flitted across his face, and then it seemed as if the 
intervening years were rolled away and that he and I 
were suddenly transported to the waterfront at Yale 
and that he had just told me his name was only Tom, 
and I had named him “Happy Tom.” 

He ascended the scaffold with a firm step and 
listened unmoved to the reading of the death-warrant 
and the prayers of the good man who stood at his 
elbow. His legs were then tied, a cap was drawn 
over his face, a bolt was sprung, and the next instant 
all that remained of Unhappy Tom Chooley was a 
writhing body suspended between heaven and earth. 


THE DUEL. 


“Honor pricks me on. Yea, but how if honor prick 
me off when I come on ? How then ? Can honor set 


^74 


The Mystic Spring, 


to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the 
grief of a wound? No. What is honor? A word. 
What is that word, honor? Air. Therefore I’ll none 
of {i”—Shakesp^enre. 

Early on the 19th day of July, in the year 1858, in 
company with some twelve hundred other adventurous 
spirits who had left California to try their luck in the 
Fraser River gold fields, which were then attracting 
the attention of the world, I landed from a rowboat 
on the waterfront of Esqu;malt town. We had fol- 
lowed in the wake of some 20,000 other gold-seekers. 
The old steamer Sierra Nevada, in which we voyaged, 
was overloaded with freight and passengers, and it 
seemed a miracle that she survived the heavy winds 
and waves that beset her path. We were nine days on 
the way — the voyage is now made with ease by mod- 
erately fast vessels in two and a half days. The dis- 
comfort was great. Hundreds of the passengers — 
men, women and children — unable to secure berths or 
sleeping accommodations of any kind, lay about on 
the decks and in the saloons in the abandon of despair 
and hopelessness. Only a few escaped an attack of 
seasickness. I was among the fortunate ones ; having 
voyaged much in youth I was seasoned to all condi- 
tions of weather. 

I had a stateroom in which there were three berths. 
One of these was occupied by G. B. Wright, who 
afterwards rose to eminence on the Mainland as a 
pioneer merchant and road builder. He was a bright, 
energetic man at that time, young and chock full of 
enterprise and ability. The remaining room-mate was 
a young Englishman who said his name was Geo. 
Sloane. He was very intelligent, and having lately 
left college in England, was fond of quoting Latin and 
Greek phrases and reciting poetry, which he did very 
well. In the next room was an American named 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 175 

Johns, whom I had known at San Francisco; another 
American named Crickmer, also a San Francisco ac- 
quaintance, and a third young man who called himself 
John Liverpool. This last person was English, he 
said. He was of a jovial disposition, smoked a good 
deal and drank brandy from an earthen jug. He could 
tell a good story, and Wright and I — the others being 
prostrated with seasickness — used to lean over the rail 
and listen to his fund of anecdote and adventure. 
Sometimes he would make us laugh immoderately, 
and at others our hearts would be stirred with pity 
as he related some pathetic story of his early life. 

About the fifth day out a passenger — a woman — 
died, and on the evening of the same day she was 
buried at sea. Captain Blethen reading the funeral 
service as the corpse, sewed in canvas and weighted 
with iron, was shot over the side. I have often won- 
dered how any of us escaped with our lives. The con- 
dition of the ship was abominable; the water was bad, 
there was no attempt at sanitation, and the stench 
from the hold was unbearable. The food was 
wretched, and so the brandy in Mr. Liverpool’s jug 
was at the ebb-tide mark long before we sighted Cape 
Flattery. 

On the sixth night the head wind stiffened to a 
fierce gale, and in spite of all we could do to reassure 
the wretched people on board, many resigned them- 
selves to their fate and few expected to see land again. 
That night two men, who had come aboard healthy and 
strong, succumbed and were buried at sea the next 
morning. The afternoon of the seventh day was 
bright and warm. The wind died away, the sea 
calmed down and the steamer began to make fairly 
good time. The sick people gradually crawled from 
their hiding places, looking wan and wretched enough, 
but loud in the expression of their thanks that they 
had come through the tempest with their lives. Seated 


176 


The Mystic Spring, 


on a steamer chair I presently observed a young 
woman of eighteen or twenty years, who had struggled 
from below. She was pale and thin, and bore on her 
face a look of wretchedness and misery. I got the 
impression that when in health she must be very pretty, 
and I recall that she had a wealth of dark brown hair, 
a pair of glorious hazel eyes and regular features. She 
sat watching the gulls as they rode on the crests of 
the billows, and I thought I had never seen a prettier 
picture. I was tempted to speak to her, but as I was 
on the point of advancing a burly figure pushed by 
me and, addressing the girl, engaged her in conversa- 
tion. Their tone was low, but they seemed to be 
acquainted. Mr. Liverpool, for it was he who had 
put my amatory “nose out of joint,” hung about her 
till bedtime. When Liverpool passed me on the way 
to his stateroom, I rallied him as to his pretty ac- 
quaintance. 

“Yes,” said he, “she is pretty. Her name is Brad- 
ford — Miss Bradford. She is very unfortunate. Her 
mother was the lady who died and was buried the 
other day, and she is alone in the world. I knew them 
in San Francisco. The mother kept a boarding-house. 
They were on their way to open a boarding-house in 
Victoria, but of course that is all over now and she 
will have to go back.” 

The next morning I was early on deck and there sat 
the pretty girl with the hazel eyes again watching the 
gulls as they skimmed over the surface of the waves. 
The morning was warm and pleasant, the land was 
in sight, and the assurance of the Captain that next 
day we should be at Esquimalt brought the color to 
many pallid cheeks and the lustre to many dull eyes. 
At this moment Sloane, advancing with difficulty along 
the crowded deck, reached the girl. He held in one 
hand a cup of tea and in the other a plate on which 
were an orange and some biscuits. As he was about 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 177 

to hand the articles to the girl, Liverpool, who was 
standing near, grasped the cup and plate and himself 
handed them to Miss Bradford. The girl never looked 
at Liverpool, but she flashed her beautiful orbs full in 
Sloane’s face, and thanked him in a low, sweet voice, 
Sloane, who seemed somewhat disconcerted at Liver- 
pool’s interference, hesitated a moment and then 
walked to where Wright and I were watching events. 

“You seem,” said I, “to be making progress in that 
direction.” 

“Well, you see,” he replied, “I was up at dawn, and 
you know the saying about the early bird, etc. I have 
had a long talk with her. Since her mother is dead she 
has no friends left except a brother at San Francisco, 
and she intends to go back by this very boat. She has 
no money either. It was all in her mother’s purse, and 
when she died money and purse disappeared — stolen 
by some miscreant. She is very intelligent, very sweet, 
and, oh! of such a grateful and confiding nature. She 
told me everything about herself and I know all about 
her and her belongings.” 

“Have a care,” said Wright. “My experience of 
steamboat acquaintances is rather unfavorable.” 

“My dear fellow,” rejoined Sloane, “there are ac- 
quaintances and acquaintances. This girl is as good as 
gold. What do you say? Let’s start a subscription 
for her. I’ll give twenty dollars.” 

The idea was adopted, and in about ten minutes 
Sloane was on his way back to the girl with a consider- 
able sum — I think atout one hundred dollars. I ac- 
companied him. Liverpool stood behind the girl’s 
chair, conversing with her in a low tone. 

“Miss Bradford,” began Sloane, speaking very 
slowly and very low, blushing like a schooltoy the 
while, “I have brought you a small sum as a loan from 
a few of your fellow-passengers. You can repay it at 
your leisure.” 


178 


The Mystic Spring, 


He was about to place the coin in the girl’s out- 
stretched hand when Liverpool wrenched the money 
from his grasp and tossed it overboard. 

“Look here !” he exclaimed, “this girl is not a beg- 
gar, and if she stands in need of money I have enough 
for both.” 

Sloane was speechless with indignation. His eyes 

blazed with anger. “You d d cad,” he began, and 

then recollecting himself he paused and bit his lip. 

“Go on,” said Liverpool ; “I’m listening.” 

“Miss Bradford,” said Sloane, ignoring Liverpool, 
“do you countenance — do you approve of this man’s 
conduct ?” 

I looked at the young woman. Her face had as- 
sumed an ashen hue; her lips were colorless and her 
beautiful eyes were filled with tears. She half rose 
and then sank back and seemed about to faint. 

Sloane still held the reins of his passion and refused 
to let it get away with him, but he was livid with re- 
pressed rage. 

“Do you,” he at last managed to say to Miss Brad- 
ford, “do you approve of this man’s beastly conduct? 
Has he any right to control your movements, or to 
say what you shall or shall not do? Please answer 
me, and if he has a claim upon you I will go away and 
trouble you no more.” 

The girl rose from the chair and was about to reply 
when Liver^ol’s right arm shot out and his fist struck 
Sloane full in the face between the eyes. Sloane stag- 
gered, but he did not fall. In an instant he recovered 
his balance, and, quicker than it takes to tell it, he 
seized Liverpool by the throat with one hand while 
with the other he delivered about a dozen smashing 
blows in rapid succession upon his antagonist’s face 
and body. It was all over in half a minute, and Liver- 
pool, his face streaming with blood and half dead from 
the choking and pounding, dropped into the chair 


, AND Other Tales of Western Life 179 

which the girl had vacated as she fled from the scene. 
I took Sloane away and got a piece of raw meat from 
the steward to bind over his eyes, which were both 
blackened. 

The next morning the passengers landed at Esqui- 
malt from the steamer in small boats (there were no 
wharves), and having seen nothing of Liverpool and 
Miss Bradford since the affray I began to hope that 
we had heard the last of them — not because I was not 
deeply interested in the fair creature (for I may as 
well confess that I was), but I feared if the two men 
came together again there would be a tragic outcome. 
We walked to Victoria in the afternoon and found the 
town crowded with gold-seekers. Houses were few 
and the whole town-site was covered with miners’ 
tents. There must have been 10,000 people there at 
the time of which I write. Every country on the face 
of the earth was represented. The streets and fields 
were alive with people. Fort and Yates Streets, from 
Cook nearly to Quadra, and from the present line of 
Fort to Johnson Street, was a big swamp where pond 
lilies and cat-tails flourished. At Cook Street on the 
East, and James Bay on the south, where the Govern- 
ment Buildings now stand, there were dense forests of 
oak, cedar and fir. The Hillside estate was thickly 
covered with standing timber, and grouse and deer and 
an occasional bear could be bagged within a few min- 
utes’ walk of the Finlayson homestead. 

Crickmer, Johns and I had brought a tent and a 
good supply of food. We pitched, as nearly as I can 
remember, in an open space near where the Dominion 
Hotel stands. Sloane we invited to camp with us. 
Although he was a casual acquaintance we liked him 
from the start, and his plucky display of science when 
he beat John Liverpool endeared him to us. The first 
night we slept on a bed of fir boughs. In the morning 
we built a fire, and Crickmer, who was a good cook 


The Mystic Spring, 


180 

and had been accustomed to camping out, began to 
prepare the morning meal. Presently he came inside 
and lowering the flap of the tent said: “Boys, who 
do you think are our next door neighbors ? Guess.” 

We all gave it up, and he exclaimed, “Liverpool and 
Miss Bradford occupy the next tent.” 

Sloane sprang to his feet with a furious oath, ex- 
claiming, “If he has wronged that girl I’ll kill him.” 

“Nonsense,” said I ; “when you’ve been on the Coast 
a little longer you will not make such a fuss about 
people you chance to meet when travelling. What is 
she to you, anyway?” 

Crickmer and Johns took the same view, and we ex- 
tracted from Sloane a solemn promise that he would 
not speak to Miss Bradford if he met her and that he 
would not notice Liverpool under any circumstances. 

As we concluded our conversation the flap of the 
tent was raised and a broad, good-natured face ap- 
peared at the opening. 

“Boys,” the face said, “I’ve been here a month. I 
know all about everybody. I live next tent on the 
north, and anything I can do to help you, ask me. I 
want to warn you. I saw a bad San Francisco man 
pass here a moment ago. He disappeared in one of 
the tents. Keep a close watch to-night.” 

Little did we think at the time that the bad man 
was Sloane’s steamboat antagonist. 

We ate our meal in silence, and then walked to Gov- 
ernment Street to enjoy the sights and sounds that are 
inseparable from a mining boom. About the noon 
hour we ate luncheon at the Bayley Hotel, where the 
Pritchard house now stands. The luncheon cost each 
man a dollar, and for a glass of water with which to 
wash down the food each paid fifteen cents. Water 
was scarce and just as dear as Hudson’s Bay rum; and 
as for baths — well, there was the harbor. A bath of 
fresh water at that time would have been as costly 


AND Other Tales of Western Life i8i 


as the champagne bath at Winnipeg in 1882, which a 
man took to commemorate a big real estate deal, at 
$5 a bottle ! 

We returned to the tent about five o’clock in the 
evening and set about preparing our dinner of bacon 
and beans and flapjacks. Presently Liverpool and 
Miss Bradford appeared. The girl seemed ashamed 
and hurrying into their tent did not appear again. 

Johns and I had arranged to meet Wright at seven 
o’clock and attend a minstrel show at the Star and 
Garter Hotel, which stood on Government Street upon 
the site now occupied by the old Masonic Temple. So 
we sauntered down the road to keep the appointment. 
What happened after we left the tent was told us by 
Crickmer amid tears and sobs, for his was a very ner- 
vous and emotional temperament. He said that as he 
and Sloane sat about the camp fire smoking their pipes 
after we had gone Liverpool came out of his tent. 
His face bore the marks of severe punishment. 
Sloane’s eyes were also black. Liverpool, who was 
accompanied by three or four evil-looking men, his 
voice quivering with passion, said to Sloane : 

“I demand satisfaction for the injury you have done 
me.” 

Sloane rose slowly to his feet and, keeping his eyes 
full on the other’s face, replied, ‘T have done you no 
injury.” 

“You have,” said Liverpool, passionately. “You 
insulted my wife by offering her money, and you beat 
me like a dog when I refused to let her take it.” 

“I did not know she was your wife,” said Sloane. 

“She wasn’t then, but she is now. I married her 
this morning,” returned Liverpool. 

“What do you want me to do?” asked Sloane. 

“I want you to fight me — now — here — this minute. 
Get your pistol.” 


The Mystic Spring, 


1S2 


“I have done you no wrong, and I won’t fight you; 
besides, I have no pistol,” said Sloane. 

“Then I’ll brand you as a liar and coward, and will 
kill you, too.” 

“Take care, Liverpool,” said Sloane. “Don’t go too 
far.” 

“Go too far ! Why, man, if anything I can do or say 
will make you fight I’ll say and do it. Take that,” and 
the ruffian spat full in the other’s face. 

“Give me a revolver!” exclaimed Sloane, enraged 
beyond control. “I’ll fight you ; but it must be with the 
understanding that after we have fought I shall be 
troubled no more.” 

“Yes,” said Liverpool, his every word seeming to 
carry a hiss, “after you have fought me you will be 
troubled no more.” 

The awful significance of this remark was realized 
later on. 

Crickmer said he clung to Sloane and implored him 
not to fight. But the Englishman’s blood was up, and 
he struggled like a wounded tiger. Two of Liver- 
pool’s companions dragged Crickmer, who was little 
and frail, aside and threatened to shoot him if he in- 
terfered further. 

A crowd of miners had been attracted to the spot by 
the loud talking, and one of them unbuckled his waist 
strap and handed Sloane a six-shooter. 

“It’s a good one and never misses,” the miner said. 
“Do you want a second ?” 

“Yes; will you act?” asked Sloane. 

The miner consented. Liverpool chose one of the 
evil-looking men as his second, and the principals and 
seconds, followed by a gang of several hundred camp- 
ers, repaired quickly to an open space where Rae Street 
now runs, and beneath the very shadow of the English 
Colonial Church ten paces were stepped off and the 
men took their places. Liverpool, winning the choice 
of position, stood with his back to the sun, a manifest 


Gentlemen, Are You Ready ? 



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AKD Other Tales of Western Life 183 

advantage. As for Sloane, the glory of the departing 
sun shone full on his face. The music of birds was 
in his ears. Sweet wild flowers bloomed about him. 
He took all this in wkh a sweeping glance, and for a 
moment turned and gazed at the oTd church. Per- 
haps a vision of his childhood days, when a fond 
mother directed his footsteps to the House of Prayer, 
swept across his mind. The next instant he faced his 
adversary, dauntless and cool. 

“Gentlemen, are you ready?” asked one of the sec- 
onds. 

“Ready,” both responded. 

“Then— fire!” 

There were two reports, but only one bullet found 
its billet. With a loud cry of agony Sloane fell for- 
ward. He had been shot through the heart. 

The sun sank behind the Metchosin Mountains, and 
the chill evening breeze swept across Church Hill and 
sighed a requiem through the branches of the tall 
pines. The midsummer moon rose in all its splendor 
over the tops of the trees, and its soft rays fell upon 
Something lying there still and cold — Something that 
a short while before was an animated human being, 
full of hope and promise and chivalry ; now, alas ! dead 
to all things earthly. The scene was deserted by every 
living thing, and the dew of heaven, like angels’ tears, 
had fallen on the stricken youth’s form and bathed his 
face and hair ere the police appeared and bore the 
body to town. 

As Johns, Wright and I came out of the show place, 
two hours later, we saw a stream of excited men and 
women passing along. “A man has been shot dead,” 
said one of the passers-by. We followed the crowd to 
the corner, and with some difficulty elbowed our way 
into a deserted building. Our feelings may well be 
imagined when we saw our late steamer acquaintance 
and tent mate, whom we had left a short time before. 


184 


The AIystic Spring, 


lying dead on the floor. An inquest was held and a 
verdict of “wilful murder” was returned. But the sur- 
viving principal, the seconds and Miss Bradford were 
gone, and no man could be found who would ac- 
knowledge that he saw the duel. All who had not run 
off were struck suddenly blind, deaf and dumb. 

When we came to prepare the poor youth for the 
grave, the man who had given us the warning as to 
the presence of a bad character helped. We had asked 
a Presbyterian minister to read the service, but we 
found a gold medallion of the Holy Virgin and the 
Child suspended by a chain about the neck of the 
corpse, so the Bishop of the Catholic mission read the 
funeral service of his Church over the remains. Noth- 
ing was found in the dead man’s travelling bag to in- 
dicate who he was. We only knew that he was a 
brave young Englishman who had been done to death 
by a bloodthirsty ruffian through a mistaken idea of 
what constitutes honor. 

And John Liverpool and Miss Bradford, did you 
ever hear of them again? you ask. Yes; John Liver- 
pool was in reality “Liverpool Jack,” a noted Cali- 
fornia outlaw, who immediately on his return to San 
Francisco murdered the mate of a British ship and 
was executed with neatness and despatch by the au- 
thorities there. Crickmer, whose terrible experience 
while here prompted him to take the next l^at for 
home, wrote me some years later that he often saw the 
girl with the wealth of hair and glorious eyes flitting 
along the pavements at night like an evil spirit. 

And so .ends the story of British Columbia’s first 
and only duel. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 185 


A PLOT THAT FAILED. 

“My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, 
And every tongue brings in a several tale, 

And every tale condemns me for a villain.” 

— Richard III. 

Not long since while rummaging among some old 
papers I found the full-length photograph, in carte de 
visite size, of a gentleman whose features seemed 
familiar; but for the life of me I could not recall 
where and under what circumstances I had met the 
original. After cudgelling my brain until it ached, I 
threw the picture down. In falling the back of the 
photograph turned uppermost and instantly memory 
came to my aid and a train of thought that carried me 
back more than forty years was set in motion. Writ- 
ten across the card appeared these words : 

“Yours affectionately, 

“John Cooper.” 

“Victoria, V. I., May, i860.” 

The inscription brought to mind the face, and face 
and name recalled a story of an attempted crime 
which, in all its ramifications, had it been accom- 
plished, would have been one of the most remarkable 
and extraordinary that ever occurred in America. 

John Cooper was an Englishman who before coming 
to Victoria in 1859, had been in the Australian Goy- 
ernment employ. As he was backed by good creden- 
tials his services were immediately engaged by the 
Government of British Columbia, and being an excel- 
lent accountant he was installed as chief clerk of the 


The Mystic Spring, 


i86 

Treasury of British Columbia. The colonies of Van- 
couver Island and British Columbia were at that time 
governed by separate and distinct staffs. They were 
presided over by one Governor — Douglas — who super- 
vised both establishments. The officials were quar- 
tered at James Bay, and the vault in the Treasury 
Building, which was a detached structure, and stood 
near where the palatial printing office now stands, was 
used in common by both staffs. This was before the 
day of combination and time locks, and the massive 
iron door of the Treasury was secured by a key re- 
sembling (except in size, for it was a huge brass affair 
and weighed nearly a pound) an ordinary house key. 
There was no duplicate, and the task of opening and 
closing the vault was assigned to Mr. Cooper, who left 
the office about four o’clock every afternoon, bearing 
with him the ponderous key, safely deposited in an 
inside pocket. 

The house in which Mr. Cooper roomed was situ- 
ated on the southeast corner of Yates and Douglas 
Streets. The building has been lately torn down to 
make room for the massive stone structure of the Mer- 
chants’ Bank. The moss on the roof and the general 
state of dilapidation into which the place had fallen 
betokened its antiquity. It was, at the time of which 
I write, a new and smart looking building. A gen- 
tleman named Pidwell built and occupied it with his 
family, and Mr. Cooper slept in one of the rooms on 
the second floor. The next neighbor of the Pidwells 
was an auctioneer named McCrea, who, with his 
charming wife and family of three children, occupied 
a four-roomed one-story building which has long since 
disappeared before the ravages of time. In the back- 
yard of the McCrea house and overlooking the rear of 
the Pidwell house was a smaller building. At the time 
of which I write it was occupied by a gentlemanly- 
looking man and his handsome wife. They had ar- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 187 

rived from San Francisco about the ist of January, 
i860, and had rented the house from McCrea for 
three months, the gentleman, who said his name was 
Sprague, informing the landlord that he was awaiting 
the opening of the mining season to go to Yale and 
work some claims he owned there. The couple were 
regular in their attendance at worship, dividing their 
attendance between the Wesleyan Methodist church on 
Lower Pandora Street and the Church of England 
edifice on Church Hill. They seemed to have money, 
and Mrs. Sprague, who had a fine contralto voice, was 
accompanied by her husband upon the violin. As 
their strict attendance at church attracted attention, it 
was not long before they were “in the swim.” Vic- 
toria society, such as it was then, threw wide open its 
doors to them. Soon no musicale or tea party was 
deemed successful at which Mrs. Sprague did not sing 
and Mr. Sprague play. 

Being a very young man at the time, and unmarried, 
I had plenty of evenings at my disposal, and naturally 
made one of several young fellows who availed our- 
selves of the opportunity afforded by an invitation to 
pass a pleasant evening in good company. As the 
McCrea and Sprague homes were too small to accom- 
modate many visitors, the reunions were held at the 
Pidwell house on the corner. The family were very 
musical, and with all the available local amateur talent 
contributing to the enjoyment, we waifs and strays 
from Canadian and English homes were made su- 
premely happy. 

Mr. and Airs. Sprague being the latest arrivals, and 
being, as I have said, decidedly musical, were the cen- 
tre of attraction. Mrs. Sprague would sometimes be 
induced to favor us with a secular song. She sang 
“The Old Folks at Home” and “The Last Rose of 
Summer” with great pathos and feeling, but she 
prefaced every vocal effort with the information that 


The Mystic Spring, 


i88 

she preferred sacred music. As for cards, they were 
the abomination of the pair, and dancing was sinful 
and immodest. 

As I was very impressionable at the time, I confess 
that this tall, courtly and accomplished lady won my 
confidence from the start, and I may add that she sim- 
ilarly impressed all my young friends. We had little 
use for Sprague. Perhaps we envied him the pos- 
session of the splendid creature he called his wife, but 
it always seemed to me that he was acting a part. 
While his wife was easy and natural in her manners 
and gave evidence of good breeding, the husband was 
decidedly unnatural and too methodical in his ways 
and speech. His words were measured and his voice 
seemed to be false and assumed. When he spoke to 
you his black eyes would wander all over the universe, 
as if he were fearful of looking you in the face, and I 
often had a sensation come over me, as we conversed, 
that he was pulling wool over my eyes. But gradually 
that feeling wore away. The generosity of the couple 
was unbounded, and their piety was so pronounced 
that to have uttered a word in disparagement of either 
would have been to consign the utterer to a social 
Coventry, 

I did venture on one occasion to remark to a lady 
friend that I didn’t like Mr. Sprague, when I was met 
with the tart remark, “Oh, you’re jealous.” So I said 
no more, and the enjoyable evenings continued, with 
the Spragues cutting daily a wider swath with their 
voices and violin into the affections of their friends 
and neighbors. I forgot to say that Mr. Cooper al- 
ways attended the musical parties and contributed his 
share to make things pleasant. A Philharmonic Soci- 
ety was formed about this time, and of course the 
Spragues were invited to join. They accepted, and 
the first rehearsal was arranged for, when an astound- 
ing thing occurred, which rent society to its centre and 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 189 

burst our musical evening's to pieces as if a charge of 
dynamite had got in its work. 

The winter of 1860-61 was very boisterous and wet. 
The dwellings were mostly of a cheap class, and the 
wind played havoc with the windows and roofs. The 
streets were bogs. There were no sidewalks above 
Government Street, and only here and there a cross- 
walk to enable pedestrians to go from one side of a 
street to the other. Wheeling was almost an impos- 
sibility and teams were “sloughed” in efforts to navi- 
gate the liquid mud with loads of goods. There were 
no street lights ; gas had not been introduced and elec- 
tric lights and telephones were not invented. There 
was no water supply, except from wells, and carts de- 
livered the fluid from door to door. There was no 
sewerage; yet, strange to say, cases of typhoid fever 
and diphtheria were rare. There were no delivery 
carts, goods being sent from store to house in wheel- 
barrows or baskets. Not a single hack plied for hire 
on the streets, and open vans or express wagons con- 
veyed passengers to and from Esquimalt town, where 
a steamer from California called every three weeks 
with the mails, freight and passengers. The service 
between Puget Sound and Victoria was performed by 
a small steamer that made weekly trips. There was 
no railway anywhere on the Coast at that time and no 
telegraph line west of Chicago. 

But all this is beside the story I have to tell, and I 
must hasten on. On the afternoon of the loth of Feb- 
ruary, i860, five heavy wooden boxes strapped with 
iron were delivered at the Colonial Treasury. They 
were addressed to the Treasurer of British Columbia 
and bore the broad arrow on their covers. The boxes 
had been brought from England by a warship that 
arrived the day before. It was known that they con- 
tained 40,000 sovereigns, which were to be used in 
paying off a force of English regulars quartered on 


190 


The Mystic Spring, 


the Mainland, and to defray other Imperial Govern- 
ment expenses. This large sum of $200,000, added to 
a further sum of about $20,000 belonging to the local 
authorities, made a total of $220,000. No secret was 
made of the presence of all this treasure at the Gov- 
ernment Buildings, and when on the morning of the 
1 8th of February, eight days after the receipt of the 
sovereigns, the janitor found tracks of muddy boots 
on the floor of the verandah, their presence created no 
surprise. Such an event as a burglary was the last 
thing to enter any one’s mind, and the $220,000 re- 
posed in the vault behind the iron door, which was 
locked by John Cooper’s massive key, in apparent 
security. 

The night of the 20th of February, i860, was one 
of the most dismal and stormy of a long and dreary 
winter. The wind toyed with roofs and awn- 
ings, and storm-clouds scurried across the sky. The 
inmates of the Pidwell homestead retired early that 
night and the household was soon fast asleep. About 
two o’clock in the morning, while the storm was at its 
height and windows and doors rattled a noisy accom- 
paniment to the fierce gusts of wind that shook the 
building, a young lady asleep in one of the rooms was 
awakened by a sensation of something cold touching 
her face. She instinctively raised her arm and 
grasped the hard, horny hand of a man. The room 
was intensely dark and not an object could be seen. 
The young lady, now thoroughly awake and alarmed, 
a*kecl : 

“Who are you — what do you want?” 

“Hush!” replied a man’s deep voice, lowered to a 
hoarse whisper, and then the young girl felt the cold 
muzzle of a pistol pressed against her face. “Hush!” 
continued the voice. “If you speak again I’ll blow 
your brains out,” 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 191 

t But the girl would not hush. “What do you want ?” 
she again demanded. 

“I want to know where Mr. Cooper’s room is. I 
want him,” replied the voice. “I won’t harm you if 
you’ll tell me and make no noise. If you don’t I’ll 
kill you,” and the cold muzzle was pressed against the 
girl’s forehead. 

Instead of remaining silent the girl screamed loudly. 
The screams awoke the occupants of the other rooms, 
and the burglar, hearing their cries and movements, 
started for the stairs. In the dark he lost his way and 
ran into the arms of Mr. Pidwell, who was also grop- 
ing in the dark, having run into ascertain the cause of 
the commotion. The two men grappled and in their 
struggles fell against the bathroom door, which yielded 
to the pressure, and down they tumbled into the room, 
the intruder underneath. As he lay there he contrived 
to fire his pistol. The ball grazed the knee of his cap- 
tor, and passing through the base-board of the room 
carried away part of the ear of a young man who came 
bounding up the stairs to assist in the capture. 

About this time a light was procured, and as its rays 
fell on the face of the captive there was a simultane- 
ous cry of “Why, it’s our milkman!” 

And sure enough the burglar proved to be the man 
who supplied the neighborhood with milk. His name 
was Francis Birney, and he had been looked upon as 
a model young man, whose only objection to the busi- 
ness, he often said, was that he was forced to deliver 
mrlk on Sunday, when he ought to be at church. 

The little town was thrown into a state of intense 
excitement when it became known the next day that 
murder and robbery had been attempted. The neigh- 
bors of the Pid wells were extremely agitated, and all 
repaired to the scene of the startling event to learn 
particulars — all save the Spragues. About ten o’clock 
in the morning some one remarked their absence and 


192 


The Mystic Spring, 


a messenger was despatched to tell them of the affair. 
He found the door open, household things and wearing 
apparel scattered about the rooms, but in the words of 
Casabianca, “The Spragues, oh! where were they?” 
They had disappeared — murdered perhaps by the man 
or men who had invaded the Pidwell house. The well 
was examined, and every place where a body might 
have been concealed was searched. Even the kitchen 
floor was taken up, but from that day to this no trace 
of the pair was ever seen in or about Victoria. 

The captive was arraigned at the next Assizes, and 
Chief Justice Cameron gave Birney a sentence of five 
years in the chain-gang. 

About a week after his sentence Birney sent for me 
and told me that he wanted to make a confession. He 
said that he had joined a band of six robbers who were 
aware of the defenceless condition of the Treasury. 
They knew all about Mr. Cooper and the key, and on 
one occasion had arranged to knock him on the head in 
broad day while he was on his way to town, rob the 
Treasury with the aid of the key, and carry the treas- 
ure off in a boat to the American side. The scheme 
failed for want of opportunity, and he accepted service 
as a milkman with the object of ascertaining the habits 
of the Pid wells and the location of Mr. Cooper’s room, 
from whose pockets it was arranged that he should 
abstract the Treasury key while the custodian slept. 
The gang were then to loot the vault, carry the treas- 
ure to the water-front and convey it in a boat to the 
American side. As originally planned the plot com- 
prehended the stealing of about $20,000, money be- 
longing to the local governments. But when the 40,- 
000 sovereigns were brought in the scheme was en- 
larged, and the game became more exciting in expecta- 
tion of larger profits. 

“I worked on that scheme for six months, and ought 
to have won,” said Birney, “and would have won, too. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 193 

only the young lady would not hush when told to do 
so at the peril of her life.” 

“And the Spragues?” I ventured. “I suppose you 
killed them ? Where did you hide the bodies ?” 

The criminal laughed long and loud. “The Spragues 
— kill them? Lord love your innocent young heart, 
they were in the conspiracy. They were my partners. 
How they did fool you all. I used to sneak in at their 
back door and sleep on a lounge every night. Kill 
them? Sprague isn’t Sprague at all. He is one of 
the most notorious burglars in America, and he and his 
‘wife’ came here on purpose to do that job — to rob the 
Treasury. Mrs. Sprague searched Cooper’s room 
twice for the Treasury key, but Cooper always carried 
it with him. Oh! if that girl had only hushed! But 
it’s just my luck. Sprague got away and I am here. 
When they found out that I was caught, the pair bolted 
for the American side in the boat that had been pro- 
vided to carry away the treasure.” 

Some years afterwards, when Birney had served his 
sentence and was again at large, he was detected while 
in the act of robbing the house of an old woman. He 
resisted and a constable was shot dead. Birney es- 
caped to the American side and two years later was 
hanged by a vigilance committee in Montana. 


THE PREMIER BARON. 

“A thousand fantasies 
Begin to throng into my memory, 

Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, 
And airy tongues, that syllable men’s names 
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.” 

•^Milton. 


194 


The Mystic Spring, 


In the fall of 1858 there arrived at Victoria a tall, 
dark, haughty looking Irishman, with a military bear- 
ing, who gave evidence by the absence of one of his 
eyes, of hard usage on some battlefield or in a per- 
sonal encounter. The gentleman’s name was Major 
DeCourcey, and he claimed to have seen service in the 
Crimea, the scene of Britain’s latest unpleasantness. 
He brought high recommendations as to character and 
fitness, which he presented to Governor Douglas, and 
it was not long before he was enrolled on the commis- 
sion of the peace and was sent to San Juan Island as 
magistrate. That island had long been a preserve of 
the Hudson’s Bay Company, who raised pigs, sheep 
and horned cattle thereon, while the company’s ser- 
vants took unto themselves wives and raised many 
children. A number of British and American farmers, 
attracted by the fertility of the soil, also settled there, 
and quite a community of both nationalities soon began 
to grow up. Previous to the advent of Major DeCour- 
cey as Justice of the Peace the two races had min- 
gled in perfect harmony, and neighborhood disputes 
that sometimes arose were settled in a way satisfactory 
to all parties. I am not aware that Britain’s rights to 
sovereignty over San Juan and adjacent islands had 
been seriously questioned before 1859; but certainly 
no overt act was committed and no claim officially sub- 
mitted by the United States previous to that year. 
Shortly after Major DeCourcey made his appearance 
on the island an American settler stole or confiscated 
or shot for trespass a fine Berkshire hog belonging to 
the Hudson’s Bay Company, and the magistrate, on 
complaint being made, haled the offender before him, 
and either imprisoned or fined him. In disposing of 
the case DeCourcey was unnecessarily severe in his 
strictures on the American settlers, and threatened that 
if necessary the whole power of the British nation 

would be invoked to punish themr One would have 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 195 

thought that a grave question of state was involved — • 
that the rights of the Government had been attacked 
and were imperilled — whereas the trouble was all over 
a pig, worth four or five dollars! But momentous 
events have often flowed from small circumstances. 
Not to travel too far from home for an example, the 
great territory of Oregon was lost to the British Crown 
because the salmon of the Columbia River did not rise 
to the fly I The brother of the Earl of Aberdeen, the 
British Premier in 1846, commanded a warship on the 
Oregon Coast. The territory was then in dispute. 
One day the Premier’s brother started out for a day’s 
fishing, but coax as he might he failed to induce a 
single salmon to rise. Disgusted he wrote home to 
his brother : “A country where the salmon will not rise 

to the fly is not worth a d .” And so it came about 

that Great Britain withdrew her claim and the whole 
of Oregon and Washington Territory, which were hers 
by virtue of prior occupation, passed under American 
rule. Between a pig and a salmon Britain’s interests 
were sadly undone on the Pacific Coast. 

The American residents, regarding the treatment of 
their fellow-countryman as an act of tyranny, and 
affecting to believe that the island was American terri- 
tory, appealed to Gen. Harney, who was then in com- 
mand of the U. S. forces on Puget Sound. Harney 
despatched Capt. Pickett with a small force, and in- 
structed him to land on the island, lay claim to it in the 
name of the American Government, and resist any 
attempt that might be made to dislodge him. Briefly 
stated, the contention of the Americans was this : That 
the line which defined the boundary between the Brit- 
ish territory and that of the United States ran on the 
west side of San Juan and the other islands, known as 
the San Juan group and that the group was the prop- 
erty of the United States, The British held that the 


The Mystic Spring, 


196 

line ran on the east side of the ^oup, and that all the 
islands west of the line were British territory. 

The news of the invasion of the island by an Amer- 
ican force created much excitement when it reached 
Victoria, Washington and London, A fleet of war- 
ships was detached from the Chinese station, and or- 
dered to proceed with all despatch to Esquimalt and 
there await orders. At one time there were twelve 
warships in Esquimalt harbor, and a thriving business 
was driven by Victoria merchants. It was a sight 
worth seeing to witness the heavily laden vans creak- 
ing over the old Esquimalt road with supplies of all 
sorts for the Navy, while officers and men streamed 
along the roads in vast numbers, as they trekked to 
and from the city. 

Everyone here expected that there would be war. 
Governor Douglas, who was a man of strong feelings 
and unimpeachable loyalty, was pronounced in de- 
nouncing the invasion as an intentional outrage, and 
claimed the right, by virtue of his commission as gov- 
ernor, to use force in expelling the invaders. Admiral 
Baynes, who was in command of the fleet, favored the 
adoption of temporizing measures and declined to al- 
low the fleet and the men under him to retake the 
island without instructions from Downing Street. In 
due course the instructions came, and were to the effect 
that until the two Governments had had a conference 
matters were to remain in statu quo. Gen. Winfield 
Scott and Governor Douglas, representing their re- 
spective Governments as commissioners, met at Port 
Angeles and there arranged for joint occupation of the 
group until the dispute had been composed by arbitra- 
tion. A British force was then landed, and the two 
garrisons maintained friendly relations until, fifteen 
years later. Emperor William of Germany, acting as 
umpire, decided that the American contention was 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 197 

correct, and the group passed under the control of the 
Washington Government. 

Long before the termination of the “war” — in fact, 
while affairs wore their most ominous aspect — De- 
Courcey was withdrawn from the island. It was felt 
that his life was not safe there, and he came to live 
again at Victoria, where he grew exceedingly unpopu- 
lar because of his overbearing demeanor. He some- 
times sat on the Police Court bench with Mr. Pember- 
ton and administered a sort of Jedburgh justice upon 
Indian offenders and whiskey sellers He seemed to 
delight in inflicting heavy penalties for light offences. 
The Colonist often rapped him over the knuckles, and 
in the somewhat crude vernacular of the day referred 
to him as a “snob and a Bashi-bazouk.” It was said 
that DeCourcey commanded a company of those no- 
torious Turkish irregulars, the Bashi-bazouks, during 
the Crimean War, and that he lost his eye while en- 
gaged in a village raid. This may have been a libel, 
because, as this story will show, DeCourcey, although 
a decided martinet, was deficient in neither courage nor 
ability. 

Among the officers of the fleet was a Capt. De- 
Courcey. He belonged to the English branch of the 
family — the DeCourcey of whom I am writing being 
of the Irish branch. Now it so happened that at that 
time there was no love lost between the two nationali- 
ties of the distinguished line, and one day the brace of 
DeCourceys met on Government Street in front of the 
Colonial Hotel. Approaching the English DeCourcey, 
the Irish kinsman asked: 

“Am I addressing Capt. DeCourcey of H. M-. 

5, 

“You are,” was the reply, short and sharp. 

“I, too, am a DeCourcey,” said the Irishman. 

The Englishman raised a monocle, screwed it into 
his eye, surveyed his distant relative from boot to hat 


198 


The Mystic Spring, 


with a maligfnant look and ejaculating, “The h you 

are,” walked away. 

About this time a scandal was created at a tea meet- 
ing through the wicked act of a number of graceless 
young men. The Colonial, then the leading hostelry, 
stood on Government Street about where the Senate 
saloon and the restaurant adjoining now are. The 
dining-room had been secured for tea meeting pur- 
poses by one of the religious denominations repre- 
sented here, and the kitchen was taken possession of 
by the ladies who prepared the tea and coffee for the 
regalement of the guests. John Butt, the town crier, 
an all round vagabond and bad man, was bribed to 
offer his services to the ladies as assistant in the 
kitchen. While officiating about the range the wretch 
contrived to introduce into the tea-kettles the contents 
of two bottles of Hennessy brandy. The loquacious 
effect upon some of the tea drinkers — many of them 
rigid temperance workers — may be imagined, and I 
will not describe it. The next morning the scandalous 
affair was the talk of the town. Everyone denounced 
the act as a mean outrage, and DeCourcey, in the dual 
capacity of gentleman and J. P., was most pronounced 
in his denunciation of the perpetrators. 

“I would give a pound to know the rascal,” said he 
to a group of friends on the street. 

“Major, if I tell you his name, will you give me the 
pound?” asked Butt, who was passing at the moment, 
and overheard the offer. 

“Yes, willingly,” replied DeCourcey. 

“Well,” said Butt, “I did it. Give me the pound.” 

In an instant DeCourcey had him by the collar, 
turned him quickly around, and administered one after 
the other in quick succession a series of the most 
awful kicks. You might have heard them across the 
street so loud and resounding were they. The major 
had been generously provided with big feet and wore 


AND Other Tales of .Western Life 199 

heavy brogans. Butt writhed and howled in agony, 
and when he was at last released with a final kick that 
raised him off his feet and deposited him in the street, 
he ran off as fast as his condition would permit. He 
never called on the Major for the pound ; if he had I 
fear he would not have got it, for DeCourcey was 
desperately hard up. But if he did not get a pound, he 
at least got a pounding. 

One bright morning in May, 1861, I stood in front 
of the Colonist office, then published on Government 
Street in the building now occupied by the C. P. R. Co. 
On the opposite side, near Fort Street, I saw standing 
a well-known barrister (afterwards a Judge of the 
Supreme Court and still alive). Two young men next 
appeared in view. They were strolling slowly along, 
and as they neared the lawyer that gentleman stepped 
in front of them and barred their further progress. 
Some words were exchanged by the barrister and one 
of the young men, and then the barrister’s arm shot 
out and down went the young man to the ground in a 
disorganized tangle. The other young man put up his 
hands in an aggressive attitude, when he, too, went 
sprawling on top of his companion. Both sprang to 
their feet and both went down again. By this time Mr. 
Gilbert Malcolm Sproat (who is still with us, I am 
pleased to say) and I had reached the spot, and Major 
DeCourcey and Mr. Pemberton, the Police Magistrate, 
who were on their way to hold court, also ran up. The 
young men, who proved to be Sir Barrett-Leonard, 
Bart., and Dr. Ramsay, a medical practitioner, were 
assisted to their feet, their hats were recovered and 
they adjourned to Searby’s drug-store, where their 
wounds and bruises were dressed. The cause of the 
difficulty was some silly tittle-tattle of the doctor which 
the barrister had reason to think affected the reputa- 
tion of a lady friend of his. The baronet’s only fault 


200 


iThe Mystic Spring, 


was being found in bad company and interfering in a 
quarrel in which he had no concern. 

With the outbreak of the American war DeCourcey 
saw his opportunity. He immediately got together his 
effects and left for the States. Arriving at Washing- 
ton he presented his credentials and was made a 
colonel. His first engagement was at the siege of 
Vicksburg, a Southern stronghold which was be- 
leaguered by Grant. DeCourcey showed so much 
bravery on that occasion that he was made a brigadier- 
general. His men, before going into action, hated 
him ; he was so tyrannical and exacting that they made 
up their minds to kill him at the first chance. But, as 
one of them told me, “The fellow was so brave and 
careless of his own safety and comfort that we could 
not harm him. With some of our generals it was ‘Go 
on, boys!’ With DeCourcey it was ‘Come on, boys!’ 
for he was always first. He bullied and damned us, 
but he would not let us go where he would not first go 
himself.” 

After the fall of Vicksburg DeCourcey was sent 
with his brigade to a Confederate fortress at a place 
called Cumberland Gap. He was instructed to invest 
the fortress, but to delay further action until the ar- 
rival of the commander-in-chief. Upon reaching the 
Gap DeCourcey detected the weak spot in the enemy’s 
works, and at once assaulted the place with the result 
that it soon fell into his hands with many prisoners 
and all the munitions of war. 

The next day, upon the arrival of the commander-in- 
chief, DeCourcey was cashiered and dismissed from 
the army for “disobedience of orders and presump- 
tion.” Was there ever a greater act of ingratitude 
done by a jealous superior officer? DeCourcey did 
what Nelson did with impunity — won a great victory 
by disobeying orders. Nelson was loaded down with 
many honors. DeCourcey was dismissed in ignominy. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 201 

Dififerent nations have different ways of recognizing 
ability and pluck. 

It may be mentioned as an extraordinary circum- 
stance that the Southern commander at Cumberland 
Gap was Pickett, the captain who invaded San Juan 
Island and set DeCourcey’s authority at naught. At 
the outbreak of the war Pickett resigned from the 
Union Army and joined the Southerners. He was 
made a general and was one of the bravest of the 
brave among the Southerners. Pickett was not cap- 
tured at the Gap, being absent .at Richmond when 
DeCourcey took the place. Pickett when I knew him 
was about thirty-five years of age, of medium height, 
a handsome, dashing fellow, with yellow hair, which 
he wore very long, after the fashion of the Vikings, 
whom he very much resembled. He rose to great dis- 
tinction in the Southern Army, and died at fochmond 
after the war was over. 

DeCourcey went back home. It was understood 
while here that he was a distant connection of Lord 
Kingsale, the Premier Baron of Ireland, but so re- 
mote were his chances of attaining to the peerage that 
it never entered the head of any one to speak of his 
high possibilities. But fate often decides things in 
a way that is foreign to our anticipations and expecta- 
tions. One after another the immediate heirs to the 
Kingsale peerage died off and cleared the path for 
Major DeCourcey. Then one day the old earl died, 
and our whilom disagreeable Victorian, the former 
Bashi-bazouk, the originator of the San Juan “war,” 
and the American general, being next in line, suc- 
ceeded to the title and estate. The peerage is one of 
the most ancient in Great Britain, dating back to the 
twelfth century. The present Lord Kingsale is the 
thirty-third of his line. He is privileged to remain 
with his hat on in the presence of his sovereign. It 
was King John who conferred this honor on tiie De- 


202 


The Mystic Spring, 


Courceys, because of an act of bravery performed by 
Sir John DeCourcey in defending his soverei^. 

History relates that when William, Prince of 
Orange, ascended the English throne in 1689 he was 
surprised at observing among the assembled peers a 
tall, gaunt man, poorly dressed and wearing his hat. 
His Majesty indignantly demanded to know why the 
person presumed to wear his beaver in the presence of 
royalty; and one of the courtiers probably replied that 
the man was the Earl of Kingsale, and that he re- 
mained covered because of a right conferred by a 
previous monarch. King William denounced the right 
as an absurdity, and in effect declared his unbelief in 
the genuineness of the claim. The Earl was com- 
pelled to withdraw, and was not again permitted to 
come into the presence of the King until he had pro- 
duced the necessary authority for the strange custom 
over the hand and seal of King John. When King 
George IV. visited Ireland, some seventy-five years 
ago, he demanded to be told the name of the person 
who of all the company present dared to remain cov- 
ered in his presence. Perhaps he asked the Lord 
Chamberlain, “Who is that guy?” for George was 
never very choice in his language, and revelled in 
slang. He was told, whereupon he is said to have re- 
marked : 

“Humph! well if he is an Earl he need not forget 
that he is a gentleman, and refuse to take off his hat 
in the presence of ladies.” 

Our DeCourcey, after he became an Earl, when 
presented to Queen Victoria, wore his hat. I believe 
at the recent Coronation of King Edward the present 
Earl of Kingsale remained covered in Westminster 
Abbey during the ceremony. The DeCourceys are 
poor, but they are proud, and have always resisted 
every effort to buy the hats off their heads with a pen- 
sion. Members of the family have engaged in trade 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 203 

to eke out their slender income. Like Lord Lyveden, 
who visited Canada last year, the DeCourqeys have 
often been forced to accept menial employment to ob- 
tain the means of living, I met a member of the De- 
Courcey family who was employed as cook in a 
mining camp near Okanagan in 1896. Until quite re- 
cently another member of the family was a waiter on a 
Mediterranean steamship, and another played a cornet 
on the flagship Zealous when that vessel was on this 
station thirty-five years ago. Lord Lyveden has been 
a billiard marker, a waiter, a steward, a sailor and a 
barkeeper. A Victorian who drank with him at the 
Driard bar tells me that Lyveden can mix the finest 
cocktail he ever tasted. “There is one thing,” his lord- 
ship said, “that I never let a man do — mix a cocktail 
for me. I do it myself.” Another Irish lord was 
an hostler in New Zealand, and was sleeping in a hay 
loft when called home to Ireland to accept the title 
and the estates. Lord Robert Cecil (afterwards Mar- 
quis of Salisbury and Premier of Great Britain) mined 
for gold at Ballarat in Australia, where his cabin may 
still be seen. Lord Blaquiere’s nephew was a con- 
ductor on a Victoria street-car ten years ago, and a boy 
named Harrison, born at Victoria of poor parents, is 
now a baronet in England, The ups and downs of life 
are wonderful, and the most forcible examples are 
furnished from the annals of the peerage. 

A Mr. D’Ewes was colonial postmaster from 1859 to 
1861. He was a happy-go-lucky, hail-fellow-well-met 
sort of person, very polite and pleasant in his man- 
ners, and as jolly a companion as you would care to 
meet. The postoffice was a frame structure, and stood 
on the site of what is known as the “old postoffice” on 
Government Street. There were forty lock boxes and 
one delivery window. The revenue was considerable, 
rates of postage being very high, as much as a shilling 
being charged on a letter to England and the States, 


204 


The Mystic Spring, 


and newspapers paid four cents each. No one ever 
knew what was taken in at the Colonial postoffice un- 
der D’Ewes. One day D’Ewes applied for leave of 
absence. He was overworked and was ill, and wanted 
a trip to California. He got his leave and went away. 
Then Mr. Robt. Ker, at that time Colonial Auditor 
and one of most accomplished accountants in Great 
Britain, got possession of the office and it was speed- 
ily found that the postmaster was a serious defaulter. 
For how much no one ever knew, but as he had taken 
everything that came in for two years and paid little 
or nothing out, he must have got away with several 
thousand dollars. His books — well, he kept no books. 
The condition of things at the postoffice recalled to old 
William Leigh, afterward town clerk for many years, 
a reminiscence of Capt. “Billy” Mitchell, who for some 
years was in command of the Hudson’s Bay Com- 
pany’s pioneer steamer Beaver, and traded with the 
Indians on the northwest coast of the colony. The 
company despatched a sailing packet once each year 
for London with furs, oils and skins. The annual 
accounts were also despatched by the same medium. 
This, of course, was before the discovery of gold in 
California had opened a shorter and easier passage to 
England by way of Panama. Governor Douglas on 
one occasion was much vexed with Mitchell because of 
his dilatoriness in handing in the Beaver’s accounts. 
After several unsuccessful applications, the Governor 
went down to the boat in person. 

“Capt. Mitchell,” he began, “you must hand in your 
accounts by to-morrow noon.” 

“My accounts,” replied Billy, “I have none.” 

“Surely, Capt. Mitchell,” returned the Governor, 
**you kept accounts of your expenditures and receipts.” 

“Yes, sir, I did.” 

“Well, where are they?” 

“To tell you the truth, Governor, I kept them in the 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 265 

Bible, and the d d rats have eaten the book from 

Genesis to Revelations.” 

Major DeCourcey, or rather Baron Kingsale, died in 
Italy, where he resided for economical reasons, thir- 
teen years ago, and his remains were brought to Ire- 
land and interred in the family vault. His grand- 
nephew, who is next in succession to the present Earl, 
is a tea merchant in London and his coming of age 
will shortly be celebrated with becoming honors. 


ENGLAND’S GREATEST NOVELIST. 

“For his chaste Muse employed her heaven-taught lyre 
None but the noblest passions to inspire, 

Not one immoral, one corrupted thought. 

One line which, dying, he could wish to blot.” 

— Lyttleton. 

It was at the close of a beautiful day in the month of 
February, 1868, that I strolled along Esquimalt road 
on my way back to Victoria. I was accustomed to take 
long walks, and my favorite stroll was from the post 
office in Victoria to the post office in Esquimalt and 
back again, a distance of eight miles as chained by one 
of H. M.’s naval officers. The weather was warm 
and the departing sun shed its genial rays on the scene, 
imparting a golden hue to the foliage of the trees 
which at that time grew thickly on both sides of the 
road. As I advanced I observed a young man in the 
uniform of a naval officer bending over the prostrate 
form of a sailor, who lay in a state of inebriation on 
the road. When I neared the men the officer asked me 
to assist him in removing the sailor from the roadway 
to the path at the side of the road, where he would be 
secure from injury by passing vehicles. Together we 

i 


ao 6 ' The Mystic Spring, 

managed to half drag and half lift the man to a spot 
'where he would be comparatively safe. The officer 
thanked me for my assistance and handed me his card, 
on which I read, “Mr. Sidney Dickens, H. M. S. 
Scout” I handed him my card in return, and after a 
few words as to the weather and the beauty of the 
scenery, we were separating, when, glancing again at 
the card, something prompted me to ask — 

“Are you a connection of Charles Dickens, the great 
novelist ?” 

“Yes,” he replied, “I am his son. Do you know — 
have you met my father?” 

“Unfortunately no,” I replied, “but I am leaving in 
a few days for the East, where I hope to hear him 
read. He is now in the Eastern States, and I have 
timed my departure hence so as to attend at least one 
of his readings.” 

My new-made acquaintance seemed delighted at the 
pleasant allusion to his parent and volunteered to give 
me a letter of introduction to him. At this offer it was 
my turn to be delighted, and I gladly accepted the 
favor. 

The next day there came to my office a very prettily 
worded note from Mr. Dickens, sub-lieutenant of the 
Scout, enclosing the promised letter of introduction. 
Circumstances that were beyond my control prevented 
my leaving Victoria until the 6th of May. The passage 
was long and tedious. To reach San Francisco I took 
the steamer Geo. S. Wright at this port for Portland. 
At Portland, after several days’ delay, I embarked on 
a rotten old steamer called the Continental, which 
shortly afterward foundered in the Gulf of California. 
We encountered a fearful storm, during which the 
vessel sprung aleak and we were several days in 
making the port of destination. The Captain was the 
most profane and godless man that I ever met. Every 
other word was a curse, and high above the raging 


■AND Other Tales of Western Life 207 

of the storm, the roaring of the wind and the creaking 
of the timbers of the wretched ship, his voice could be 
heard cursing his Maker, the crew, the ship, the pas- 
sengers and all things animate and inanimate. His 
treatment of the sailors was most inhuman. He had 
them completely cowed. At the slightest provocation, 
and often with no provocation at all, he would fell a 
man to the deck and kick him while he lay prostrate. 
It was narrated of him by Johnson, a famed Columbia 
River pilot, tliat while ascending Columbia River one 
day the steamer got aground on a bar. A man was 
sent down to examine one of the paddle-wheels that 
had become fouled in some way. Just as the seaman 
disappeared under the wheel the steamer swung clear 
of the obstruction. 

“Go ahead !” roared the Captain. 

“Stop!” cried the pilot, “there’s a man under the 
wheel.” 

“ the man under the wheel,” returned the Cap- 

tain. “Go ahead — full speed.” 

The cruel wheel turned rapidly. Three weeks later 
the crushed body of the victim to the inhumanity of 
the Captain was picked up lower down the river. I 
always said that that bullying Captain was a coward. 
When the Continental foundered he went off in one 
of the ship’s boats, leaving twenty passengers, whose 
safety he had not provided for, to sink with the vessel. 
It is not necessary to say that he never got another 
command. 

At San Francisco I was detained several days before 
a steamer sailed for Panama. The passage down the 
coast was long and tedious. At Panama there was de- 
lay in crossing the Isthmus to Aspinwall, on the At- 
lantic side, and we were three days beyond the usual 
time in reaching New York, where, upon arrival, I 
was deeply grieved to learn that the greatest of all 
novelists, whom I had travelled many miles to see and 


208 


The Mystic Spring, 


hear, had been compelled by ill-health to cut his read- 
ing course short and had gone back to England. My 
disappointment was great and I was destined never to 
experience the gratification of meeting this illustrious 
and truly great writer and novelist. 

Bob Ingersoll, the infidel, once said that Mr. Dick- 
ens was the best friend children ever had on earth, 
except Christ. It was an extraordinary admission for 
Ingersoll to make. He had always been looked upon 
as a man who did not believe in Christ, and a friend 
told him so. He replied: 

“I do not believe in him as our Saviour and I ques- 
tion his divine origin.” 

“Then,” said the friend, “he was an impostor.” 

“Not at all. His teachings are all wise and good; 
they breathe the highest morality and are worthy to be 
followed. He was a great and good man and he ac- 
cepted without question what his mother told him 
about his conception. I do not say that he was not the 
Son of God. I only say that the evidence is not con- 
clusive, in fact, is improbable.” 

Ingersoll is dead now and has solved the problem 
for himself. I think it is well that I should point out 
that his mantle has not fallen on any other shoulders. 
While Christ’s teachers and followers number many 
millions, Ingersoll has left not one strong man behind 
him to disseminate his views and carry on his work. 

Dickens was, indeed, a friend of the poor and down- 
trodden. His “Oliver Twist” caused a reform in the 
workhouse system and in the methods of dealing with 
vagrant children. “Little Dorritt” reformed the system 
of imprisoning debtors whose only crime was poverty. 
“Our Mutual Friend” produced a reformation in the 
transaction of business at the public offices. “Martin 
Chuzzlewit” proved a deathblow to the mode of deal- 
ing with the poor and the nursing system of the day, 
and “Bleak House” was the means of reforming the 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 209 

Chancery laws. I question very much if any other 
country has produced or will ever produce his peer 
as a novelist and a humanitarian. Doubt has been 
thrown upon the claim that Shakespeare wrote the 
plays that stand in his name. Many excellent authori- 
ties attribute the plays to Lord Bacon, who was de- 
scribed as “at once the greatest and meanest of man- 
kind,” for he was proved while on the Bench to have 
accepted bribes. One of the strongest points urged 
in favor of Bacon being the author of the Shakespear- 
ean plays is the fact that he was a travelled man. He 
visited Denmark, Italy, France and even Russia in his 
younger days, and returned to England with his mind 
stored with the information that afterward appeared 
in some of the works attributed to Shakespeare. 

It is plain to some minds that none but one who had 
visited the scenes where the plots of the “Merchant 
of Venice” and “Hamlet” were laid could have writ- 
ten those plays. Shakespeare was never outside of 
England. There exists no evidence to show that he 
was a man of education, yet no one who was not a man 
of letters could have written any of the Shakespearean 
tragedies and comedies. That Bacon did not lay claim 
to the authorship in his lifetime is attributed by those 
who believe that he and not Shakespeare wrote the 
plays to the fact that a playwright or an actor in those 
days was regarded as a low sort of person, and Bacon 
did not desire to be classed as such. 

But while the dispute as to the authorship of 
Shakespeare is waged with heat by warring factions, 
and the question must remain undecided until the end 
of time, there will never be any doubt as to who wrote 
the line of works that stands in the name of Charles 
Dickens. No English writer who has ever lived has 
done more, if as much, to raise the standard of woman- 
hood and ameliorate the condition of children and the 
poor than Dickens. His “Christmas Carols” are mar- 


210 


The Mystic Spring, 


vels of love and tenderness and beauty of thought and 
expression. They are matchless. His “Tale of Two 
Cities,” where an Englishman dies on the scaffold for 
his friend, reveals, perhaps, the finest plot of all his 
great stories. Some call this his best work; I, who 
have read them all, believe that none is “best,” — that 
all are “best,” if this paradox will be tolerated by the 1 
reader. 

The story of the second tour of America, which 
was rudely cut short by Dickens’s illness, is told by his 
manager, George Dolby, who was his constant com- 
panion and most trusted “friend.” Dolby’s book was 
published in 1887, and it is evident from a perusal of 
it that Dickens was in no condition to lecture or even 
to travel when he came to America. He was subject 
to severe fits of illness. Sometimes it was erysipelas 
that attacked him. Then it was the gout. Again 
rheumatism took possession of his limbs. Often 
physicians had to be summoned to tone him up before 
he could leave the dressing-room for the stage, and it 
is stated that after each reading he would limp from 
the platform and that he required to be braced up with 
a glass of champagne or a B. & S. before he could go 
on again. In the intervals between the readings Dick- 
ens was subject to fits of great depression, and the 
champagne or the brandy bottle was always resorted to 
to brace him up ; while at the slightest occurrence that 
excited his emotions he is described as leaning on the 
shoulder of his agent and sobbing, with great tears 
coursing down his cheeks. In spite of the evident 
weakness and failing health of his chief, Dolby tells 
of the numerous suppers and dinners and banquets 
they attended, and the amount of liquor and wine that 
was consumed, of which, of course, the agent came in 
for a goodly share. In fact, the tour seems to have 
been, from first to last, one great guzzle. There was 
moderation neither in drinking nor in eating, and the 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 21 r 


opportunities for Mr. Dickens enjoying a good health- 
giving sleep would seem to have l^en few. He was re- 
duced at last to the condition of a great machine that 
runs constantly at the highest tension until it is worn 
out and falls apart from overwork. Dolby’s narrative 
reflects no credit upon himself or upon those who were 
interested in keeping the machine going at break-neck 
speed until it went to pieces. Dickens after his return 
to England essayed another reading tour throughout 
the United Kingdom. His ill health continued. Bra- 
cers were again resorted to, and it is not strange that 
he broke down in the midst of his work and died of 
an apoplectic fit one bright morning early in June, 
1870. 

Dickens was estranged from his wife, who, although 
an excellent woman, was unsympathetic and took little 
or no interest in his great work. She presented him 
with many sons and daughters, few of whom are now 
alive. The children appear to have sided with their 
father, and his wife’s sister. Miss Hogarth, lived in 
the house after the estrangement and brought up the 
children. Sidney Dickens always spoke affectionately 
of his aunt. 

None of Dickens’s children inherited their father’s 
genius. Charles Dickens, the eldest son, tried his hand 
at editing All the Year Round, a publication founded 
by his father, under whose management a great circu- 
lation was enjoyed, but the attempt was a failure. He 
did write a Guide Book of London which was highly 
commended, but in the midst of this work he died 
somewhat suddenly. Fred Dickens, the second son, 
joined the Canadian Mounted Police and was made a 
sergeant. In the Northwest Rebellion he was in com- 
mand at Fort Pitt, on the North Saskatchewan. He 
surrendered the fort or abandoned it. Two of his 
troopers were captured by the Indians and tortured 
Xone being nailed to a cross) before being killed. This 


212 


The Mystic Spring. 


action ended Dickens’s military career and he left the 
Territories and went to Chicago, where he died. 

I returned to Victoria in November, 1868, having 
been absent six months. Shortly after my return I 
met Sidney Dickens. During my absence he had been 
promoted to be a full lieutenant. Dolby mentions this 
circumstance in his book, and, of course, the inevitable 
champagne and B. & S., accompanied by a huge sup- 
per of indigestibles, had to be brought out to celebrate 
the event. Small wonder that Dickens died of apo- 
plexy ! 

There was something irregular about the promotion. 
I don’t know what it was, but there was dissatisfaction 
expressed on board the ship. 

‘T’d rather be a son of Charles Dickens,” remarked 
one of the captains, “than the heir of the Duke of 
Westminster when promotions are in the air.” 

I met Sidney Dickens on many occasions. Rear- 
Admiral Hastings was then in command on this sta- 
tion. His flagship was the Zealous, one of the early 
type of armored cruisers, long since obsolete. Ad- 
miral Hastings was one of the most genial and kindly 
gentlemen it has ever been my good fortune to meet. 
Mrs. Hastings, who was much younger than her hus- 
band, was distinguished for her beauty and amiability. 
They occupied Hazlehurst, a spacious residence facing 
Esquimalt harbor, and within a stone’s throw of the 
flagship as she lay at anchor. There was much talk 
of a Fenian invasion in 1868 and 1869, and the Ad- 
miral was so much impressed by the information that 
appeared from time to time in the local papers that he 
hesitated to leave Esquimalt lest in his absence the 
Fenians should seize the naval stores and reduce Vic- 
toria. There was never any real cause for alarm, but 
times were dull, the community was small, and the 
money expended by the ships on the station was of 
considerable importance to merchants and others en- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 213 

gaged in business, so the newspapers every little while 
would chronicle the presence in Victoria of a number 
of low-browed strangers, evidently Fenians bent on 
mischief. These reports kept the Admiral constantly 
on the alert, and the flagship, with two other ships, re- 
mained at anchor for a year and a half at Esquimalt 
harbor. 

There was very little live stock raised in the province 
in 1868, and the meat and vegetable supply for the 
Navy on the Esquimalt Station was obtained from 
Washington Territory. The Columbian, then as now, 
was published at New Westminster. It was edited by 
that clever man, Hon. John Robson, who printed sev- 
eral editorials which reflected severely upon Admiral 
Hastings for drawing his supplies from American 
sources instead of from the Mainland of British Co- 
lumbia. The Admiral, who was unduly sensitive un- 
der the attacks — for the contract had been awarded 
during the time of his predecessor — suggested to Sid- 
ney Dickens that he should write a series of articles 
signed “Vindicator” in his defence, which articles I 
agreed to print in the Colonist. Everyone anticipated 
a brilliant onslaught from the son of the greatest Eng- 
lish writer. He brought the copy of the first article 
to my residence in the evening and read it over. It 
was heavy, dull and labored. No good points were 
made, and the Columbian, in reply, ripped the argu- 
ments to pieces and scattered the fragments all over 
the controversial field. After a second letter Dickens 
retired from the contest. 

In appearance Sidney Dickens was rather insignifi- 
cant. He was short and spare, but what he lacked in 
height and bulk he made up in dignity after his pro- 
motion. He was no great horseman, but he was very 
fond of riding out with the ladies. On horseback, 
when clad in smalls and booted and spurred, he re- 
sembled a groom more than a gentleman. Pn one 


214 


The Mystic Spring, 


occasion he convoyed three of the fair sex to the 
neighborhood of Millstream. There were few settlers 
and no roads and the trails were narrow and indistinct. 
The party took no food with them and by a strange 
mishap lost the trail. They floundered in the woods 
until darkness set in, when they abandoned their horses 
and tried to regain the trail. Their absence alarmed 
their friends, and at ten o’clock a search party was 
organized, lanterns were procured, and the searchers 
beat the bush until the gray of the morning, when they 
came upon Dickens and two of his fair companions sit- 
ting beneath the shadow of a fallen tree and chilled to 
the bone. The other lady in her fright had wandered 
farther away and was not found till daylight. She 
was in an awful plight, with clothes partly torn off 
from contact with brambles, and her shoes worn out. 
With care and attention she soon recovered and was 
none the worse for the adventure. All admitted that 
Dickens showed great gallantry, but in spite of his 
bravery he was not again selected to pilot ladies 
through a pathless forest. He left the station in 1871. 
Three years later he died at Aden while on his way 
home from India, invalided — died with the flowers of 
youth and opportunity blossoming about him in the 
May of his existence. 


THE GREAT CAPSICUM PLOT. 

’Tis the first virtue vices to abhor. 

And the first wisdom to be fool no more.” 

— Pope. 


Back again at Yale — bright, breezy, busy, festive 
Yale — a while agone a sleepy Indian village and a 
quiet Hudson’s Bay Company’s station — now the the- 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 215) 

atre of extensive mining operations, the head of Fraser 
River steamboat navigation and the starting point of 
pack trains and miners bound for the golden bars of 
the canyons and the upper river. A city of tents and 
shacks, stores, barrooms and gambling houses. The 
one street crowded from morning till night with a 
surging mass of jostling humanity of all sorts and 
conditions. Miners, prospectors, traders, gamblers 
and painted ladies mingled in the throng. The year 
is 1858, and the month is September. The hour is 
nine in the evening, and, in company with three or 
four other homeless young men, I find myself stand- 
ing in the midst of a crowd of vicious men and lewd 
women who had gathered about a table to watch the 
players as they had “bucked” at faro. The dealer was 
a scorbutic-looking man of perhaps twenty-five. He 
was reputed the best faro dealer on the Coast. And, 
being not a little proud of the distinction, he seemed 
to regard the foolish persons who gathered about him 
with a cynical smile, while a contemptuous expression 
lurked in his sallow, immobile countenance. Every age 
was represented by those who surrounded the table to 
watch the playing with feverish anxiety or to stake a 
coin on the outcome of a card. 

As the game proceeded the excitement increased 
and many of the gamesters, having lost their all, 
slowly fell back and others who were anxious to try 
their fortunes took the vacated places. In the front 
rank of the latest comers my eyes fell on a respectably 
dressed man of about thirty. He was smoking a cigar 
and appeared to regard the exciting scene with an ex- 
pression of cynical listlessness. His well-to-do appear- 
ance attracted the attention of the professional gam- 
blers, who, in the hope that he had money and would 
enter the game, gradually fell back and allowed the 
stranger to advance to the table until he stood in the 
front rank. Another deal from the box was impending 


2i6 


,The Mystic Spring, 


and the eyes of the dealer were fixed like those of a 
basilisk on the newcomer, who, in a spirit of bravado, 
it seemed to me, placed a ten dollar gold piece upon the 
ace of clubs. A miner standing near the stranger laid 
two twenties on another card and when the result was 
known the young man had won and the miner had lost. 
The miner turned away with a dejected air and his 
place was taken by the stranger, who continued to 
wager with cool indifference. After the first winning 
he lost steadily. Soon his money seemed exhausted, 
for he bet no more, but still retained his place with- 
out the least show of excitement or chagrin. Pres- 
ently a bearded miner pushed his way to the front and 
laid four twenties on the first card that caught his eye. 
When the card came from the box the miner had won. 
He doubled the stakes, and again and again won. The 
owners of the bank scarcely concealed their anger. 
They made signs to the dealer to close the bank, but he 
did not appear to understand what was expected of 
him and continued to deal, while the pile of gold in 
front of the miner grew apace. 

The other tables were soon abandoned and crowds 
pressed forward to watch the duel between the bank 
and the miner and inwardly to pray that the bank 
might be broken. There must have been one thousand 
dollars on the last card the miner selected, and, strange 
to say, he won again. Then he began to place his win- 
nings in a buckskin sack, for he had announced that 
he would play no more. The bystanders watched with 
covetous eyes the fortunate man as he filled his bag 
with the golden winnings, and several patted him on 
the back and congratulated him on his good luck. The 
dealer had closed the bank and was in the act of leav- 
ing the table when a pistol shot rang through the 
room. Simultaneously every coal oil lamp was ex- 
tinguished and the place was in total darkness. A 
lamp iiiat stood on tlie table where I had watched the 



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AND Other Tales of Western Life 217 

playing was thrown to the floor and went out. The 
table was upset with a crash and then there arose cries 
of alarm and agony, mingled with fierce maledictions 
and murderous threats. I became aware of a stifling 
sensation. The air seemed filled with a penetrating 
pungent dust which I inhaled, and which caused my 
eyes to smart and my throat to parch and burn. Others 
seemed similarly affected and coughed and gasped for 
breath. I tried to grope my way outside, but found 
myself entangled in a struggling, gasping, shouting 
mass of humanity. It was some minutes before a 
light could be had. At last some one brought a lantern 
and then the faro dealer and the lucky miner were 
seen to hold their hands to their eyes while they raved 
and stamped with anguish and cried for “Help! in 
heaven’s name, help!” 

The affair was plain to the most ordinary mind. A 
band of ruffians had conspired to rob the bank. The 
pistol shot was the signal for extinguishing the lights 
and dashing cayenne pepper into the eyes of the dealer 
and player. In the darkness and excitement the funds 
were seized and carried off, with the exception of a 
few gold pieces that fell to the floor. The anguish of 
the sufferers was pitiful to behold, and neither ever 
recovered the full use of his eyes. 

A hue and cry was raised. The police were notified 
and the whole population turned out to search for the 
miscreants, but in the absence of telegraphic and tele- 
phonic communication little could be done. It was 
learned next day that an Indian canoe in which were 
seated four white men left the water front before day- 
break. Those men were believed to be the culprits, 
but they got safely off and were not overtaken by the 
constables who were sent after them. 

On the next day and on several succeeding days I 
looked in vain for the well-dressed man who stood near 
the table when the trouble came, but he did not appear 


2i8 


The Mystic Spring^ 


at either of the hotels, nor was he seen on the street; 
so at last I began to connect him with the affair at the 
gambling house, and finally became convinced that he 
was one of the conspirators who made off with the 
money. I mentioned my suspicions to several and we 
found that he had stopped at York’s Hotel, giving the 
name of Burdel, or something like it, that he had no 
baggage, and that he did not return to the hotel after 
the robbery. 

The iron and stone building on the southeast corner 
of Langley and Yates Streets, Victoria, was erected 
in i86i. It is still a substantial structure. The lot 
upon which it stands was one of three or four that 
were assigned to Governor Blanshard, who preceded 
Governor Douglas, and upon those lots stood the first 
Government House of the Colony of Vancouver Is- 
land. The Bank of British North America and the 
Adelphi also occupy two of the gubernatorial lots. 
The Adelphi and the brick building where Hall & 
Goepel’s extensive coal business is transacted occupy 
the site of Mr. Blanshard’s residence. The first occu- 
pants of the store in the iron and stone building 
were Burtis and Moore, druggists. They had opened 
business on the opposite side of Yates Street, their 
building, which was of frame, standing just where 
Oriental Alley now runs. After it had been decided 
to open Oriental Alley Burtis and Moore leased the 
Pidwell Building and moved into it in the fall of i86i. 
Mr. Burtis was an American, a jolly, whole-souled fel- 
low, witty and generous, and an able chemist and drug- 
gist, and known to his intimates as Burtis. He 

had but one fault, the nature of which will be devel- 
oped as we proceed. Mr. Moore was an Irishman, 
very quiet and sedate, and the reverse of his partner 
in most things. He was an excellent druggist and a 
good man in all respects. Burtis married a charming 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 219 

young American girl in i860, and the following year 
built a pretty cottage on Birdcage Walk. This house 
was torn down in 1897 its site now forms part of 
Government Square. 

I took a room in the Burtis cottage and the owner 
and I became fast friends, and when business did not 
prevent we were often together. I may say here that 
the pleasantest days of my bachelor life were passed 
in the Burtis household. 

The upper flat of the building on the corner was 
divided into offices, which were rented to lawyers and 
others. In 1862 the front room was occupied by a 
stranger named Bedford. He represented himself as 
a Southern gentleman who had been driven away from 
his plantations by the Northerners and had come to 
Victoria to reside until the war should be over. The 
room was very prettily hung with draperies and pic- 
tures and filled with good mahogany furniture, and 
there was nothing about the occupant to indicate that 
he was other than what he said he was — a Southern 
gentleman in exile. He was a smooth talking, quiet 
person, possessed of much general information, and 
was remarkably well read. I passed several evenings 
in his company and was entertained by his conversa- 
tion and — must I confess it? — by his cigars and sherry. 
His stories of the South were engaging, too, and as I 
had many personal adventures in California and on 
Fraser River to narrate, we got along very well to- 
gether. 

One evening Bedford asked me to describe Yale to 
* him, and I did so as well as I could. 

“Ah !” said he, “I should like to see that place and I 
shall go up some day. Life there must be most inter- 
esting.” 

I told him that, although there were pleasant times, 
life there was not all “beer and skittles.” “Did you 
ever hear of the cayenne pepper plot?” I asked. 


220 


The Mystic Spring, 


No, he had never heard of it. What was it all 
about? What kind of plot was it? Anything like the 
gunpowder plot, for instance? 

I told him alx)ut the scene in the gambling house, 
where red pepper was thrown into the eyes of the 
banker and one of his patrons by robbers, who made 
off with the coin. 

“Dear me ! dear me !” Redford exclaimed. “To think 
that there are such rascals in the world! Robbery 
would be bad enough, but to throw pepper into the 
poor men’s eyes — it was horrible.” He shuddered as 
he passed the decanter and remarked, “This playing 
for money is a bad business. I do not mind a social 
game of whist or poker, but not for money — not for 
money. Do you play?” 

“No,” I replied, “I cannot play cards — at least, not 
well; and I have never played for money and never 
shall.” 

“That’s a good resolve,” he said quickly. “Stick 
to it and you’ll come out all right.” 

The conversation here lagged and as I took my leave 
I fancied that his manner was less cordial than for- 
merly. When I met him on the street next day he was 
reserved, and I made up my mind that I should not 
visit his room again without a special invitation, which 
was never extended. 

About a month after my last visit to Red ford’s room 
a rumor reached me that several business men had 
been fleeced at cards in a building on Yates Street, the 
locality of which was not stated. Amongst the losers 
was said to be my friend Jem Burtis. It was said 
that he was out two thousand dollars and that two of 
his personal friends had assisted in his despoilment. 
I went at once to his store and found him looking very 
dejected. I told him what I had heard, and he admit- 
ted that the rumor was correct. But he scouted the 
idea advanced by me that he had been cheated. It was 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 221 


just pure luck, he claimed, and to-morrow the pendu- 
lum might swing in his direction. 

“Where do you play ?’ I asked. 

He pointed with his hand at the ceiling, and then 
I understood that the gambling went on upstairs. 

“In whose room?” I asked. 

“In Redford’s,” he answered. 

“Do you mean to say that Redford allows gambling 
in his room?” I asked. 

“Of course he does,” Burtis replied. 

“Well, then,” I exclaimed, “you’d better look out 
for him. Less than a month ago he sounded me to find 
if I played cards, and when he found that I did not 
he denounced card playing for money in forcible terms. 
I don’t like the look of this,” I added, “and you’ll find 
that Redford is either a rascal or a hypocrite.” 

Jem shook his head and the interview ended. An 
hour or two later I met Redford. He was strolling 
leisurely along, cigar in mouth and cane in hand. He 
saluted me coldly and was passing on when something 
prompted me to address him. I forget what I said, but 
he stopped short and turning around remarked, 

“You have not been to see me lately.” 

“No,” I replied, “and if what I hear about you is 
true I shall not trouble you again.” 

“What do you mean?” he asked, with that smooth, 
even drawl which was peculiar to him and which I 
had begun to regard as assumed. 

“I mean, Mr. Redford,” I exclaimed, “that I have a 
friend, a young man recently married. He has a wife 
and child and a prosperous business and it is the scan- 
dal of the day that he has been induced to gamble in 
your rooms, and that he has lost thousands of dollars 
there.” 

“I do not know that it is any of your business to 
Paul Pry into what goes on in my rooms,” he remarked 
in a dreamy sort of way. 


222 


The Mystic Spring, 


“Perhaps not, and I have not pried, but others have 
and they told me. The last time I was in your room 
you said that you abhorred gaming for money. And 
now it would appear that you tolerate it if you do not 
share in the profits.” 

For an instant the good-natured, easy demeanor of 
the man deserted him. He raised his cane and turned 
red and pale by turns. Recovering himself quickly he 
said, in his soft, purring way, “You are altogether 
wrong — you do me an injustice. I have nothing to do 
with the gambling. If friends of mine meet there and 
insist upon playing, how can I prevent them ?” 

“Easily,” I replied. “You might as well say that if 
a man intended to murder another in your room and 
you were aware of his intention that you would be 
justified in permitting the crime to be perpetrated.” 

By this time I was hot, for I was thinking of the 
victim’s little family. Bedford, who remained as cool 
as an iceberg, did not reply, but with a crisp “Good- 
day” moved off. I watched him as he walked along, 
apparently unconcerned. And then I fell into a curi- 
ous train of thought. Where had I seen the man be- 
fore ? Surely we had met somewhere ; perhaps in Cal- 
ifornia, or was it in Central America, or Mexico? 
Could it have been at Yale? The instant Yale oc- 
curred to me I felt a strange twitching in my eyelids. 
It seemed to me that something which smarted and 
gave me pain had fallen into my eyes. Then my men- 
tal vision cleared Tind — I saw plainly ! 

Some two weeks later an exciting scene was enacted 
in Bedford’s room. The story, as it reached the pub- 
lic, was to the effect that the infatuated Burtis sat 
down one evening to a game of poker. About a dozen 
persons were present. Four men were in the game — 
Burtis, Bedford and two others — one being an inti- 
mate friend and partner for the time being of the in- 
tended victim. From the first Burtis lost heavily. It 


Ain) Other Tales of Western Life 223 

was evident that the card partner of Burtis had en- 
tered into a conspiracy with Bedford and the remain- 
gamblers to make a finish of Burtis that night. 
He was to be stripped of all his possessions and on the 
morrow would walk the streets a beggar ! 

The betting was heavy and as the evening wore on 
the victim grew more and more excited and bet higher 
and higher. The interest among the bystanders was 
great and they crowded around the table to watch the 
game. All but Burtis could see that the other players 
had conspired to destroy him. He, poor innocent man, 
continued to bet on hands which he held, while the 
others met him every time. Some of the lookers-on 
were indignant at the shameful way in which the vic- 
tim was being fleeced, but not a voice was raised or a 
hand stretched out to save him; and if any one re- 
marked to himself that it was a wicked piece of busi- 
ness he took care that no one heard him. A hand 
had been dealt for the final stroke. Burtis staked his 
last available dollar on three aces and two kings. When 
the show down came Bedford produced four aces. 
Then the scales seemed to fall from Burtis’s eyes, and 
he sprang to his feet as Bedford reached out his hand 
to grasp the stakes. 

“Cheat! Swindler! Thief!” roared Burtis, as he ex- 
tended his left hand so as to cover the money. “You 
stacked the cards on me !” 

Bedford, who had also risen, made a motion as if 
to draw a weapon, but Burtis was too quick for him. 

“Throw up your hands,” he shouted, as he leveled 
a revolver at the gambler’s head. “Higher! higher! 
There! keep them up. If you lower them I’ll shoot 
you dead ! D you !” 

The other persons present exhibited the utmost 
alarm. Some ran to the door, but found it locked from 
the outside. Others made for the windows, but the 
drop to the street was too great. Still others flat- 


224 


The Mystic Spring. 


tened themselves against the wall in a vain effort to 
reduce their figures to the smallest possible compass. 

Burtis’s card-partner ventured to reason with him. 
He was told with a savage curse to stand back, and all 
this time the cocked revolver was levelled full at Red- 
ford’s head. Of all present only Redford was appar- 
ently unmoved. While the hearts of some stood still 
and their cheeks were blanched Redford was calm and 
collected. Without changing color he demanded: 

“What does this mean, Burtis?” 

“It means that you are an infernal swindler; it 
means that I have got you in the door and that I am 
going to squeeze you until you disgorge the money you 
have unfairly won from me and others. You a South- 
ern gentleman? You are a low-lived scoundrel and 
thief !” 

Redford, with his eyes bent full on Burtis, was seen 
to drop his right hand into the pocket of his sack coat. 

“Stop that!” shouted Burtis. “Take your hand out 
of your pocket or I’ll shoot you dead. Up with your 
hands again, you scoundrel. Up ! up I Hold them over 
your head! So! There, that’ll do; now keep them 
there till I tell you to let them down,” continued Bur- 
tis, as he crammed the money on the table into his 
pockets. “Now,” he said, “I am still a loser through 
you and your friends to the extent of $3,000. You 
have corrupted even the partner whom I have had 
nightly, and you have had a merry time discussing my 
affairs and predicting that after this night my ruin as 
a business man would be complete.” 

“This is all Tommy rot,” faltered Redford. 

“You may have it so if you like, but if I give the 
word that door will fly open and policemen will take 
you in charge. It will be too late to parley then.” 

“What do you mean — what am I accused of?” ex- 
claimed Redford, whose indifferent air and calm de- 
meanor had at last fled. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 225 

“I accuse you of being the principal in the cayenne 
pepper robbery at Yale four years ago!” cried Burtis. 

Had Bedford been struck a heavy blow he could not 
have shown greater consternation. He turned a green- 
ish white, staggered back and seemed on the point of 
sinking to the floor. “Take I take!” he murmured, “all 
that I have, but do not hand me over to the police !” 

Then the key was turned in the lock and the door 
was thrown open and there glided in the figure of a 
young woman. She wore a water-proof over her dress, 
the hood of which was drawn over her head. She ad- 
vanced into the middle of the room and it was then 
seen that she was Burtis’s dear little household treas- 
ure. Swiftly crossing to where her husband stood, 
her eyes flashed fire as she laid one hand on his pistol, 
and facing Bedford and his pals like an avenging 
angel she pointed with the other hand at them. “Vil- 
lains,” she cried, “you have robbed my poor Jem! 
Would you murder him, too ?” 

“My God, Bessie, you here!” cried Burtis, as he 
lowered the pistol. 

“Yes, Jem, dear Jem,” the angel replied, “and we 
must hasten home, for I left the baby in the crib 
asleep with no one to look after her if she should 
awaken. Have you got all the money? Yes? Then 
come, dear,” she said, as she led her husband to the 
door, “we must hurry.” 

The two passed out of the room, along the hall to 
the stairs and then out into the night. No man at- 
tempted to stay their progress and they reached home 
unmolested. 

The next day Bedford disappeared and was not 
heard of again. His furniture and pictures were taken 
possession of by his victim and sold. Mrs. Burtis, it 
afterwards transpired, had gone to the room in search 
of her husband and while listening outside the door 
observed that the key was on the outside. She turned 


226 


The Mystic Spring, 


the key in the lock. She afterwards said she never 
knew why. At the critical moment she unlocked the 
door and entered the room and rescued her husband. 
Burtis said he had not told his wife that he was a 
loser, and had no understanding with the police, and 
that he only mentioned the cayenne pepper plot to un- 
man Bedford. 

In the Burtis cottage there hung for several years 
the headless photograph of a man taken at full length. 
It had been the portrait of the false friend who acted 
as Burtis’s partner on the night of the gambling ad- 
venture. The intended victim, after the adventure, cut 
the head from the photograph, and when questioned 
as to his reason for doing so took keen delight in nar- 
rating the story that I have just told. 


THE GOLDEN WEDDING. 

Ingomar — Parthenia, what is love? 

Parthenia — “Two souls with but a single thought, 

Two hearts that beat as one.” 

— Ingomar, the Barbarian. 

The passer along the southern side of Humboldt 
Street, between Government and Douglas, will ob- 
serve a two-story frame building, occupied, I think, 
as a boarding-house. This building formerly stood 
on Government Street, corner of Broughton, oc- 
cupying part of the site where Weiler’s furniture store 
now rears its imposing front. It was built in i860 by 
ex-Mayor Richard Lewis, and in its day was consid- 
ered quite a smart structure. It was at one time the 
City Hall, and many of the impassioned scenes that 
characterized the mayoralty of the late James Drum- 
mond were enacted within its walls. Before passing 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 227 

into the hands of the city it was opened as the St. 
James’ Club by three Londoners. One was a former 
army officer, another a naval commander, and the third 
had done literary work on the London press. All 
were very much down-at-the-heel when they opened 
the St. James’s, and as none of them had had any ex- 
perience at hotel-keeping it will be readily understood 
that their financial condition did not improve very 
rapidly. 

The fall of 1862 witnessed the return from Cariboo 
of a large number of miners with heavy swags of 
gold dust, and Victoria was the theatre of many up- 
roarious gatherings and routs. The owners of the 
Abbott, Point, Diller, Steele, Barker, Adams, Cam- 
eron and other very rich claims on William Creek con- 
gregated here and seemed to find difficulty in getting 
rid of their money. 

A story is told of Abbott, chief owner of the Abbott 
claim, from which gold was washed by the bucketful 
for many weeks. Abbott had fished for a living at 
Frasermouth before he went to Cariboo and was a 
very poor man indeed when he settled on the piece of 
mining ground which afterwards bore his name. He 
was an easy mark for the gamblers who infested the 
mining section; he played high and lost with unvary- 
ing good-nature. He was known to have wagered 
$5,000 on a single poker hand and, having lost, ap- 
peared the following night with another big sum, 
which he sent hurtling down the table in search of 
that which had gone before — sending good money 
after bad, as the saying is. Abbott with a number of 
friends entered the St. James’ bar one evening and 
called for drinks for the crowd. Having been served 
he asked what the mirror behind the bar was worth. 

“Forty dollars,” replied the barkeeper. 

Taking a number of nuggets from his pocket Abbott 


228 The Mystic Spring, 

discharged them full at the glass, breaking it into many 
pieces. 

“Take its value out of that and keep the change,” he 
said, as he left the place. The nuggets were sold at 
the express office for a figure exceeding $ioo. 

The next day nearly all the bars in town were 
equipped with large mirrors in the hope that Abbott or 
some other suddenly made rich fool would break and 
pay for them as had been done with the glass at St. 
James’. But Abbott had gone out of the looking-glass 
business, for he broke no more, and none of his friends 
followed his silly example. 

Early in the year there arrived from London a Mr. 
and Mrs. Shoolber. They brought with them a com- 
plete and valuable stock of dry goods, furs, mantles 
and millinery, which had been selected from the 
wholesale stock of a very extensive dry goods firm in 
London, whose chief partner was father of Mr. Shool- 
ber. In addition to the stock the Shoolbers brought 
with them a young servant girl or “slavey,” a milliner, 
a dressmaker and a saleswoman. Now it so happened 
that the milliner and dressmaker, being attractive per- 
sons, were shortly wooed and won by two of the rich 
miners, and, as they were under contract with the firm 
for a year, to avoid legal complications they skipped 
off to the Sound and were married and remained there. 
The saleswoman, being rather plain, did not attract 
as many admirers, but one day a miner known as Bill 
Lovidge made up to her and proposed matrimony, and 
after a two hours’ courtship the pair became engaged. 

Mrs. Shoolber was inconsolable when the news was 
broken to her. She had paid for the passages of all 
three out, and before they had been here a month two 
were gone and the other was preparing to go. She 
appealed to Mr. Lovidge as a gentleman of honor not 
to take a mean advantage of the firm, but to wait until 
the expiration of a year before marrying the woman. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 229 

But Bill was obdurate. He wanted to get married and 
he wanted to get married right away. What was the 
pecuniary value the firm placed on the services of the 
woman for the next ten months? A trifle of $1,000 
was named. Pshaw! that was a mere fleabite. He 
would pay it. But there were the passage money and 
sundry other expenses amounting to say, $500, That 
would be all right. Mr. Lovidge would pay them, too. 
Then there was a trousseau. A final clause in the 
agreement under which the girl would be given her 
liberty must be that Mrs. Shoolber should have the 
providing of the bride’s wedding outfit. How much 
would that amount to? Well, another bagatelle of 
$1,000, not to exceed that — making $2,500 in all. “A 
mere nothing,” quoth Bill; “prepare a demand note 
and I’ll sign it.” This being done the work of prepara- 
tion went rapidly and gaily forward. When it came 
to providing clothes for the prospective bridegroom 
Mrs. Shoolber recommended Goldstein & Co., who had 
a tailoring establishment on Government Street where 
the old postoffice is now. I presume that she got what 
is termed a “rake-off,” because she guaranteed the ac- 
count, which ran up into the hundreds, for both firms 
just laid on their charges as with a trowel. The Shool- 
bers were friends of the St. James’ trio — had known 
them in London — so to them was assigned the task of 
preparing a banquet. They were directed to spare no 
expense in providing for one hundred ^lests. 

At the end of two weeks the preparations were com- 
plete. The bride had tried on her gowns and hats and 
hoops, and they were pronounced perfect dreams. The 
happy man had been fitted with his wedding garments, 
to his own satisfaction if not to that of his friends, 
and the foray on the henneries and pigstyes had been 
so complete that not a cock crew, a hen cackled, a 
chicken peeped, a duck quacked or a sucking pig 
squealed within five miles of Victoria— all having been 


iThe Mystic Spring, 


C30 

requisitioned for the Lovidge wedding feast. Carte 
blanche had been given the caterers and Mrs. Shool- 
ber in the matter of invitations, and as it was to their 
interest to have lots of food and drink consumed, about 
one hundred persons were asked. When the evening 
at last arrived the dining hall was crowded with all 
classes and conditions of men and a dozen or fifteen 
women. The table decorations were superb. There 
were few flowers, but there were many tiny flags. 
Suspended on colored cords from the ceiling were 
numerous tin angels and cupids in short dresses, in 
various attitudes of flight, with expanded wings and 
fat legs that seemed too big for the bodies. There 
were fairy lamps and wax candles flaring merrily 
away, and here and there on the board were sprigs of 
evergreen in earthen pots that in the end got sadly 
mixed up with floating island, boned turkey and corned 
beef, young pigs, and sundry fat geese. I looked in 
vain for holly, and the disappointment was great when 
I saw that there were ladies present and no mistletoe. 
Whether the fair ones shared in the disappointment 
I never knew, but I am under the impression — I do not 
speak from personal experience — that as the feast pro- 
ceeded the absence of mistletoe was disregarded and 
that before the final break-up no complaint was heard 
on that score — things swung on just the same as 
though the mistletoe had been there all the time. The 
unique decorations imparted a recherche flavor to the 
affair that otherwise would have been wanting. As 
one stout old lady remarked, “They say matches is 
made in heaven and there’s the proof of it,” pointing 
to the angels. “They’ve brought blessings on their 
wings,” and she giggled at her witty remark. 

The banquet was announced for seven o’clock, but 
it was eight before the dinner appeared. Meanwhile 
the guests had been industriously filling their empty 
stomachs with claret, beer and whiskey, so that when 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 231 

at last they sat down, amid much confusion, laughing 
and loud talking, many of the number were decidedly 
“fu.’ ” The eatables were dumped on the tables all at 
once, as it were, leaving the guests to make their selec- 
tions after the manner in which goods are chosen at a 
bargain counter in the present day. Some of the ladies 
wore dresses low-cut in front and behind, and others 
wore high waists that reached nearly to their ears. In 
thinking over these grand costumes I have often won- 
dered what would have happened had the high neck 
and the low neck, like two extremes, finally met. Be- 
fore the bride and groom appeared the half- famished 
guests had fallen foul of the food. There was a pleni- 
tude of knives and forks, but spoons were shy, so when 
some of the guests required to stir the contents of their 
cups they used the knives and forks in preference to 
their index fingers. When Bill Lovidge and his wife 
entered some stood up and cheered, but most retained 
their seats, being far gone on the road to inebriety, and 
contented themselves with calling out “Howyer, Bill ?” 
“Wish you good luck, old feller,” “How’s yer gal?” 
and so on. 

I shall not attempt a description of the bride’s get- 
up, except that it was gorgeous and stunning as a 
rainbow. But Bill Lovidge — ah! he was arrayed like 
the lilies of the valley — Solomon would have been out 
of sight by his side. He wore a tall black hat with a 
very narrow brim, a light brown sack coat (the tailors 
complained that he refused to have a coat with tails 
at any price), a pair of shepherd’s plaid trousers, a red 
vest, a flaring necktie with long ends and a paper col- 
lar. His gloves were white and he refused to take 
them off, persisting in eating with them on, in spite of 
the remonstrance of his bride. When he first took his 
seat he did not uncover, insisting that it was out of 
fashion to do so, but at last, yielding to the request of 
one of the guests, he consented to remove the tile, 


232 


The Mystic Spring, 


placing it carefully by the side of his chair, where it 
was slyly kicked and cuffed and buffeted by the wait- 
ers as they passed to and fro until it was reduced to a 
shattered condition and could never be again worn. To 
top everything, Lovidge wore eye-glasses, and the 
patronizing air with which he regarded his guests and 
fellow-diggers of the mine as he gazed along the 
tables was too funny to be described. I believe the 
bride and groom were the only ones at the table who 
were provided with napkins (Bill had his tucked be- 
neath his chin) and soup, and, as the eyeglasses were 
a very ill-behaved pair, they had a disagreeable habit 
of occasionally dropping from the bridge of Bill’s nose 
into the soup, from which he fished them with his 
spoon and, having dried them with the napkin, re- 
turned them to their proper resting place. This opera- 
tion was repeated half a dozen times during the even- 
ing until Bill’s face wore a fat expression of greasy 
contentment. 

It cannot be denied that the bridegroom was under 
the influence of the rosy god, and so were nearly all 
the guests. The supply of drinkables was unlimited. 
There was plenty of food, but it was badly cooked and 
worse served and was as cold as ice. The corps of 
waiters was very limited, and it was by the greatest 
good luck that any one who had not the ability to help 
himself got anything at all. The waiters, too, were 
suffering from the general complaint, and now and 
again a great crash would be heard, succeeded by a 
few smothered oaths, a sound as if a heavy body was 
being dragged over the floor towards the door, accom- 
panied by a thump ! thump ! We were told that the lit- 
erary man of the firm had converted himself into an 
all around bouncer, and that he was busily employed 
in looking after the welfare and morals of the unhappy 
waiters who had taken too much by kicking them out 
of the house. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 233 

The sound of revelry by night that Byron wrote 
about would have been dead silence if placed by the 
side of the Golden Wedding banquet at the St. James’. 
I doubt if Wellington would have heard the roar of 
the opening guns at Waterloo above the din had he 
been present on the memorable evening of which I 
write, and the map of Europe would have been con- 
siderably altered in consequence. 

As the evening wore on I was much amused by a 
wordy conflict between a Northern and a Southern 
man as to the merits of their respective sections. The 
war between the North and South was then on and 
feeling ran high. From words the men came to blows 
and then they clinched. In their struggle they fell 
across the table, shattering crockery and glassware and 
upsetting food and wine. The women screamed. One 
fainted and did not revive until one of the male guests 
proposed to dash a goblet of water in her face, and 
another produced a snuff-box and insisted upon giving 
her a pinch, while a third wanted to sever her stay 
laces, which were drawn quite taut, when she sud- 
denly came to, passed a hand dreamily over her face, 
and after hysterically demanding to be told where she 
was, resumed her place at the table. Meanwhile a 
ring had been formed about the belligerents, and the 
late Ned Allen, afterward M. P. P. for Lillooet, who 
had done a little pugilism in his day in England, as 
the Surrey Bantam, undertook to act as umpire. Now, 
as fate would have it, while nearly all the guests wore 
sack coats, and some who had no sacks appeared in 
their overcoats, those who had neither came in the 
miner’s ordinary gray shirt with a pistol belt (minus 
the pistol) around their waists to keep up their trous- 
ers. One of the combatants, the Northern man, had 
on the only dress coat in the room. He was the pride 
of the occasion — the pink of fashion and the mould of 
form. Amid that singularly arrayed company the 


234 


The Mystic Spring, 


clawhammer coat of the Northerner stood out in bold 
relief like a storm-signal against a cloudy sky or a 
game-cock on top of a fence hurling defiance at the 
sultan of a neighboring barnyard. The other male 
guests felt that they were at a disadvantage. The 
wearer was the Beau Brummel of the evening. It was 
true that the rest of his apparel did not conform with 
the coat, for he wore a pair of H. B. Co.’s curduroys 
with barn-door attachments. He had the coat but- 
toned up as far as the buttons went, but peeping out 
from behind the lapels was the vision of a “biled” 
shirt! These two innovations proved his ruin. The 
claw-hammer coat or the “biled” shirt might have been 
condoned had they stood alone, but the two together 
were a combination not to be borne by a company such 
as had assembled in honor of the distinguished bride 
and groom. 

That the ladies recognized there was one gen- 
tleman in the room who had been well bred and had 
been somewhere before was evidenced by the approv- 
ing glances they shot at him ever and anon. Every 
little while a lady would raise her glass and, calling 
the dress coat wearer by name, would exclaim, “I 
looks tovards you”; and the gentleman would rise in 
all the magnificence of his fashionable apparel, place 
his hand on his heart and reply as he drained his 
glass, “I likevise bows.” 

“The h’only person dressed like a gentleman at this 
table,” remarked one belle, as she conveyed a piece of 
cold ham to her mouth on the blade of her knife; “I 
should like to be hintroduced.” 

Another fair one was heard to remark, “He puts me 
in mind so much of a ’andsome gentleman I met at 
’ome the last time I dined at the dook’s.” 

I was greatly amused by a colloquy between two 
ladies who occupied seats on opposite sides of the 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 2355^ 

table. Said one, speaking across the board, and refer- 
ring to him of the clawhammer: 

“That’s Mr. Perkins, of Barkerville, ain’t it?” 

“Yes,” said the other, “that’s him. My! Don’t he 
look fine!” 

“Indeed he do. He’s quite ‘caffee or lay !” 

“Wh-a-at?” returned the other. “You means ‘oh! 
fat’ (au fait she intended to say, I thought), don’t 
you ?” 

“I means just what I said — ‘caffee or lay,’ ” glared 
the vis-d-vis. “ ‘Oh ! fat,’ indeed ! Do you want to 
insult him?” 

“Why, what you said means coffee and cream.” 

“When I went to school it meant that a person was 
just the thing — that he was all there,” was the scorn- 
ful retort. 

“Oh !” retorted the friend, sarcastically, “parley voo 
Frankay ?” 

“No, thank you,” snorted the other with indigna- 
tion, “I never use Chinook in company — only low peo- 
ple does that.” 1 

“Person !” cried the lady on the opposite side. ' 

“Woman!” was tossed back with a hiss. 

“Oh! oh!” screamed the other. “She calls me a 
woman! Take me away. Some one lead me off to 
bed. I cannot bear the sight of that hugly face no 
more.” And she threw herself back in the chair and 
commenced to beat a sort of devil’s tattoo on the floor 
with the heels of her shoes, while she wept and laughed 
by turns. 

“Highstericks,” exclaimed one of the waiters who 
rushed on the scene. “Here, some one, take off her 
shoes and stockings and spank the soles of her feet 
hard with your bare hands. That’ll bring her to. My 
sister used to have them fits, and that’s the way we 
used to cure her.” 

Someone made a move to follow the instructions 


The Mystic Spring, 


236 

thus given and actually removed the shoes, but before 
the stockings could be taken off the patient sprang to 
her feet and walked to the door with the shoes in her 
hand, sobbing as she went, “She called me a wo- 
woman !” 

Her late antagonist fanned herself violently and 
beamed affectionately on Mr. Perkins of Barkerville 
and his tail-coat. 

All these things had not been lost on the other 
guests, who were thrown into the shade by the bril- 
liant get-up of the Northerner, and I have not the 
slightest doubt that the fight was pre-arranged with 
the object of taking the beau of the evening down a 
peg or two. Under the guidance of Allen the parties 
clinched, and were struggling and panting with ex- 
citement when suddenly a tearing sound like the rip- 
ping of a crosscut saw through a thin plank was 
heard. The Northerner uttered a sharp cry as he 
dropped his antagonist and, placing his hands behind 
him, discovered that his precious garment had been 
ripped from waist to shoulders and flapped loosely on 
either side with naught but the collar and the arms to 
keep it from an absolute divorce. The sight was too 
funny for anything. The whole company broke into 
hysterics of laughter. Men threw themselves on the 
floor and rolled over and over in their hilarity. The 
Southerner jumped up and down and cracked his heels 
in his glee, while the wretched victim made frantic 
efforts to draw the tails together. All in vain, and the 
laughter grew louder and more pronounced when 
through the rent it was seen that the supposed “biled” 
(or dress) shirt was only a dickie or false bosom, held 
in position by tapes that were tied about the man’s 
body, and that beneath the rent was revealed the vic- 
tim’s underwear! Like the happy man of Oriental 
legend, he had no shirt! The poor fellow turned 
round and round in pursuit of his divided skirts like 


’AND Other Tales of Western Life 237 

a revolving lay figure in a show window, but the tails 
kept ever one lap ahead, until, falling behind hope- 
lessly in the race, he paused and, glaring across at his 
late antagonist, who was pounding the table in his 
mirth, shouted: 

“Durn you. Bill Savage, if it hadn’t a-been for you 
this ere thing wouldn’t have occurred. Wait till I 
catch you outside !” 

“Bah !” retorted Savage. “Joe Perkins, it jest serves 
yer right. If yer hadn’t a-put on frills an’ airs, and 
made believe yer was somebody, like the man in the 
Holy Scriptur’, when everybody knows yer ain’t no- 
body at all, yer wouldn’t have bin rigged out like a 
scarecrow and come here to lord it over us fellers. It 
just serves yer right.” 

There was a murmur of approval, in which the 
women joined, when Savage ceased, and the other fel- 
low, finding that he had been deposed as a howling 
swell and exposed as a fashionable fraud, broke 
through the yelling crowd and vanished through the 
door, his split coat waving its tails in front of him as 
he went. The scene was the funniest I ever witnessed 
in real life. No comedy was ever so ludicrous, and I 
cannot recall in all my experience (and I have a keen 
sense of the ridiculous) a more laughable picture than 
that presented by the unfortunate man as he left the 
dining hall a baffled and betrayed person, and sought 
the silence of the streets and the midnight air to reflect 
upon his blighted career as a ladies’ man — and to lay 
for Bill Savage. 

The wild revel went on and the fun continued fast 
and furious till long after midnight. More than one 
of the guests disappeared under the table or left for 
home. Lovidge still held his own, in spite of the ex- 
postulations and entreaties of his wife, who was rather 
a nice little body and hadn’t touched a drop all evening. 
But William, who was obstinate, was not disposed to 


The Mystic Spring, 


238 

leave while there was any liquor remaining. The St. 
James’ people were also interested in opening as many 
bottles as possible, for the more wine disposed of the 
larger their bill would be. Among the goodies that 
occupied space on the bargain counter — I beg pardon, 
dining table — was a huge rice pudding. About one- 
half had been eaten and the remainder, which closely 
resembled a broken cart wheel thickly encrusted with 
mud, sat patiently awaiting events in the pan in which 
it had been baked. No one would have imagined that 
out of so innocent a thing as a rice pudding an event 
which wrecked a Golden Wedding would grow. 

About two o’clock Bill Lovidge consented to be led 
or dragged to the nuptial chamb^er. Two of his Cari- 
boo friends took each an arm and the tearful spouse, 
with the crushed hat in her hand, followed. It had 
been arranged to speed the departing couple with a 
shower of rice, and many of the guests had filled their 
pockets with the grain and threw it in great handfuls 
upon the pair as they prepared to leave. One of the 
guests, who had failed to provide himself with rice, 
looked about for a substitute. It was Bill Savage. In 
an evil moment his eye alighted on the dish containing 
the remains of the rice pudding. With Savage to con- 
ceive was to execute, and in an instant he had plunged 
both hands into the soft, yielding mass and hurled it 
straight at the receding pair. It fell in great pasty 
patches upon the heads and clothes of Lovidge and his 
bride and bedaubed their friends as well. In a mo- 
ment there was great excitement. Savage was pitched 
upon by the indignant quartette and a number of the 
guests and kicked from the room, where he fell into 
Perkins’s hands and was most unmercifully mauled. 
Others became entangled in the row and a free fight 
was in progress when the police appeared and dis- 
persed the party. 

And so ended the Golden Wedding. I know I shall 


" AND Other Tales of Western Life 239 

be reminded that the popular idea of a golden wedding 
is the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the nup- 
tials of a couple who, having passed through the joys 
of honeymoon and survived the storms and temptations 
of wedded life extending over a half century, assem- 
ble their friends about them and receive their con- 
gratulations and presents as tokens of esteem and love. 
The picture I have pen-painted to-day is not of the 
adventures of a pair who had been married for a 
period of fifty years, but of a couple who had been 
married scarcely as many minutes when their friends 
came together and celebrated their union in one of 
the maddest, wildest and funniest festivals in which it 
has ever been my lot to take part. Why was it called 
a Golden Wedding? Because Bill Lovidge was falsely 
represented, as “Big Larry,” a fellow miner, put it, as 
“rowlin’ in gowld,” and because his mining friends had 
related far and near that he was the owner of the 
richest claim in all Cariboo — that it had prospected as 
high as $50 to the pan and that he was the wealthiest 
man in the mines. These false reports had won him a 
bride, and secured him unlimited credit. The claim 
was called the Never Sweat, and George Hunter Cary, 
the brilliant and gifted Attorney-General of both Col- 
onies, had visited the property in person, had gone 
down the shaft and dug with his own hands a panful 
of the gravel, had brought it to the surface, still hold- 
ing it in his hands, never once losing sight of it, and 
had washed the gravel himself and got a prospect of 
$50. Charmed with the result Cary, who had never 
heard of a “salted” claim — that is, a claim which had 
been purposely prepared with the object of deceiving 
an unwary tenderfoot — purchased a control in the 
Never Sweat. From that prospect sprang the famous 
Cary Castle. Upon the profits he had hoped to realize 
from the Never Sweat the walls of that ill-starred 
building were reared, and when the Never Sweat 


240 


The Mystic Spring, 


proved to be a delusion and a snare the beautiful castle 
in the air which the too credulous gentleman had built 
crumbled. There remained the castle on the rocks, to 
be sure, but it soon passed out of Mr. Cary’s hands 
and into that of the (^vernment, and from 1865 until 
its destruction by fire four years ago it was the resi- 
dence of British Columbia’s Governors. 

But to return to William Lovidge and his bride. The 
banquet and the strange doings thereat were the gos- 
sip of the town on the next and many following days. 
The bills that came pouring in to the newly married 
man were enormous. Every one had charged his own 
price for everything. I think I heard that the accounts 
footed up $5,500 — and the strangest part of the story 
is that there was not a dollar available with which to 
discharge them. The Never Sweat was worthless, and 
the money paid Lovidge by Cary had been dissipated 
long before the feast at the St. James’. The St. James’ 
bill was about $1,800. For quick cash the Club offered 
to accept $1,500. Otherwise the case must go to court. 
Mrs. Shoolber asked for $3,000, and the tailor’s bill 
and a few casuals brought the total to $5,500 or there- 
abouts. There was imprisonment for debt here at that 
time, and while the creditors were preparing to take 
out writs Lovidge, with the assistance of some of his 
Cariboo friends, managed to slip away to the American 
side in a sloop and did not return to Victoria. His 
wife joined him, and Lovidge, who was a butcher by 
trade, got employment at San Francisco, The St. 
James’ Club firm came to grief in consequence of the 
bills they had incurred on account of the Golden Wed- 
ding supper. Under the impression that Lovidge was 
rich they had joined with Mrs. Shoolber in making the 
bill as large as possible, and, in common with her, lost 
everything. The following week the St, James’ closed 
its doors and a red flag betokened an auction sale. The 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 241 

Shoolbers suffered a similar fate, and so ends the 
story. 

Speaking of ex-Mayor Lewis, I am reminded of an 
amusing incident in connection with him which will be 
worth telling now. He was taken very ill on one occa- 
sion and for a few days fluttered on the border of the 
other land. Drs. Trimble and Powell, who attended 
him, pronounced him convalescent after a short time, 
but he had made up his mind that he was going to die 
and die he would. No argument, no persuasion could 
convince him that he had yet several years of life be- 
fore him. His friends pleaded with him to make an 
effort, but he wouldn’t stir hand or foot to save his 
life. “It is written,” he said, “and what’s written can’t 
be blotted out. I am doomed.” 

The physicians were at their wits’ ends. Here was 
a man with whom there was nothing the matter actu- 
ally dying for want of pluck. Various plans to arouse 
the man were conceived, but they all failed in execu- 
tion. One day Trimble was summoned in great haste 
to the sick man’s bedside. On his way the doctor en- 
countered a Mr. Swigert. Now Swigert was the 
opposition undertaker, and there was a brisk rivalry 
between the two for funerals. An idea struck the doc- 
tor. He entered the sick room and after feeling Lewis’ 
pulse said, “You’re well — get up.” 

“No,” said Lewis, “I’ll never get up again.” 

“Very well,” rejoined Trimble. “Hurry up and die, 
then, for Swigert’s waiting outside to bury you, and 
he says he cannot wait much longer.” 

In a moment Lewis sat up in bed and in another mo- 
ment he was scrambling into his clothes. “He’ll never 
bury me, by gracious, for I’ll live to bury him.” And 
he did. Swigert died of smallpox in 1868, and Lewis 
buried him. 


242 The Mystic Spring, 

INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH. 

“A strong nor’wester’s blowin’, Bill; 

Hark ! don’t you hear it roar now. 

Lord help ’em, how I pities them 
Unhappy folks on shore now !” 

— The Sailor’s Consolation. 

The unhappy tale that I have undertaken to write 
revives recollections which, were I to consult my own 
private feelings, I would gladly allow to remain un- 
disturbed in the misty records of the past. But he 
who takes the role of faithful chronicler of historical 
events should not shrink from the performance of a 
task, however distasteful or painful it may be to him 
or to those whose reputations may suffer by the narra- 
tion. Sentiment should not be allowed to interfere 
with the duty of the historian, even though dead and 
buried animosities be called back to life and old 
wounds are opened and made to bleed afresh. I pro- 
pose this morning to tell the story of the loss of the 
steamship Pacific, which occurred twenty-eight years 
ago. I think I can fairly claim that, with the excep- 
tion of the two men who survived the wreck, there is 
no person now living who is in a position to give as 
correct a narrative of that awful tragedy and the cir- 
cumstances that led to it as myself. There has never 
been a doubt in my mind that those circumstances were 
preventible — that had the crudest precautions been 
adopted and the commonest decencies of life observed, 
the disaster would never have taken place. With this 
brief introduction I shall plunge at once into the task . 
and drawing aside the veil shall proceed to tell the 
story of that lamentable disaster with all its tragic and 
heartrending details. 

The steamship Pacific was built in New York in 
1851. She was less than 900 tons burthen, and fifty 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 243 

years ago was considered a “crack” vessel, fitted with 
all the (then) modern improvements. To-day it is safe 
to say that no vessel of her class would receive a per- 
mit to put to sea with passengers. She might be tol- 
erated as a freighter, but it is doubtful if a crew would 
be found to man her. If such was her condition when 
the Pacific first took the water, what must have been 
her state when, twenty-five years later, under the com- 
mand of Captain Jeflferson D. Howell, she left Victoria 
harbor on her last voyage, loaded to the gunwale with 
freight and so filled with passengers that all the berth 
room was occupied and the saloons and decks were uti- 
lized as sleeping spaces ? I do not believe that anyone, 
not even the agents or officers of the steamer, knew 
the exact number of persons she carried on that fateful 
voyage. There was a brisk competition between the 
Goodall & Perkins line, to which the Pacific belonged, 
and the Pacific Mail Steamship Co., which latter com- 
pany had shortly before secured a lucrative contract 
for carrying the mails between Victoria and San Fran- 
cisco. Fare on the Pacific was reduced to $5, and if a 
party of three or four applied for tickets they were 
taken at $2.50 a head. 

On the morning of the 4th of November, 1875, hav- 
ing business with a gentleman named Conway, one of 
the passengers, I was on the wharf before the hour at 
which the steamer was advertised to sail — nine a. m. 
I found the boat so crowded that the crew could 
scarcely move about the decks in the discharge of their 
duties. I have always contended that the passengers 
numbered at least 500. This belief has been disputed ; 
but it has never been successfully disputed. The 
agents’ list showed that only 270 passengers were 
booked at Victoria, but there was a large list from 
Puget Sound, and it was admitted that scores took 
passage without having secured tickets, competition 
being so keen that some were carried for nothing to 


244 


The Mystic Spring, 


keep them from patronizing the opposing line. Be- 
sides, small children paid no fares, and were not 
counted. 

The morning was dark and lowering. Heavy clouds 
moved slowly overhead. A fall of rain had preceded 
the coming of the sun, but there were no signs that 
indicated worse weather than is usual in this latitude 
in the fall of the year. I think I must have known at 
least one hundred of the persons who took passage that 
day, and who, twelve hours later, found a common 
grave in a 

“Dreadful and tumultuous home. 

Wide opening and loud roaring still for more.” 

Captain and Mrs. Otis Parsons and child, with Mrs. 
Thorne, a sister of Mrs. Parsons, were amongst those 
to whom I said farewell and wished bon voyage. The 
captain had sold his interest in Fraser River steamers 
for a sum exceeding $40,000 in gold, and it has always 
been a mystery what became of the money. After the 
ship had gone down, and it was known beyond doubt 
that Parsons and his family were lost, the most dili- 
gent enquiries by relatives failed to disclose the where- 
abouts of the treasure. The banks could or would fur- 
nish no information. Some ventured the opinion that 
the gold was in the stateroom and went down with him, 
but the hackman who took him and his baggage to 
the wharf said that there were no heavy packages 
among it. Had the gold been there its weight would 
have betrayed its presence, as more than one man 
would have been needed to lift it. Mrs. Parsons had 
been on the stage. She came to San Francisco in 
1856 as the contralto in a troupe known as the Penn- 
sylvanians. She had a voice of great sweetness and 
power and was a decided favorite with all lovers of 
good music. Parsons was attracted to her by her fine 
acting and singing, and married her while she was a 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 245 

member of the Fanny Morgan Phelps Company, which 
held the boards at the Victoria Theatre for a long 
time. Mrs. Phelps, who afterwards married Capt. 
Tompkinson of the Royal Navy, will be remembered 
by many Victorians. She died only about three years 
ago in Los Angeles, and being a most excellent womin 
and a model wife and mother, her death was greati>’ 
mourned by a large circle of friends. 

I shook hands with Mrs. S. Moote, a daughter of 
Sheriff McMillan, who was on her way to join her 
husband at San Francisco. She was among the most 
joyous of that great throng looking forward to a happy 
reunion with those she loved and no thought of danger 
crossed her young mind as the boat cast off its lines 
and headed for the great deep. 

Having said good-bye to Parsons and his family, I 
reached with difficulty a spot where Miss Fannie Pal- 
mer, youngest daughter of Professor Digby Palmer, 
stood. This young lady was a bright and lovely mem- 
ber of Victoria society. She was very popular, and 
naturally attracted a large circle of admirers. By a 
number of these she was besieged when I advanced to 
say farewell. Her fond mother was in the group that 
surrounded the fair girl, whose sweet face was more 
than usually animated in anticipation of the round- of 
pleasure that awaited her upon arrival at San Fran- 
cisco. 

There were other fair and joyous maidens on board, 
and there were young mothers in the first bloom of 
womanhood, with children at their sides or in their 
arms. There were matrons whose grown-up children 
had come to the wharf to see them safely off, and bless 
their departure and pray for their preservation, for no 
on^felt any confidence in the old steamer. There was 
the young husband on his way to California to seek a 
new home, straining his dear wife to his bosom as he 
kissed her and asked God to keep and bless her and 


246 


The Mystic Spring, 


the baby in his absence. There was the energetic busi- 
ness man, in the full flush of manly strength and 
optimism, planning for the extension of his trade. 
There was the ambitious student on his way to col- 
lege, and the rising professional man and the thought- 
ful father of a large family; the silver-haired grand- 
father and the successful gold miner; the banker and 
the faithful Government officer who was bound, under 
leave of absence, for his native sod, to meet once more 
the friends of his childhood from whom he had long 
been separated, and who, at a social gathering held in 
his honor the evening before, had sung with much 
pathos — 

“Home again, home again from a far-off shore. 

And oh ! it fills my heart with joy to greet my friends 
once more.” 

The fond eyes that watched for his coming to the 
old home grew dim and weary with that “hope deferred 
which maketh the heart sick,” for he came no more. 

Every class, every nationality, every age were as- 
sembled on the deck of that doomed vessel. The last 
hands I grasped were those of S. P. Moody, of the 
Moody ville Sawmill Co., and Frank Garesche, private 
banker and Wells, Fargo & Co.’s agent. As I de- 
scended the gang plank I met a lady with a little boy 
in her arms. The way was steep, and I volunteered to 
carry the little fellow aboard. He was handed to me, 
and I toiled up the plank and delivered him to his 
mother when she, too, had gained the deck. The wee, 
blue-eyed boy put up his lips to be kissed, and waved 
his little hands as I turned to go, and then mother and 
child were swallowed up in the dense throng, and I 
saw them no more forever ! 

The ship, as I have said, was billed to sail at nine 
o’clock. She did not get off until nearly an hour later. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 247 


The same thing happened at Tacoma the day previous. 
The steamer was advertised to leave at noon. She did 
not leave until evening. The captain, who was in bed, 
had given orders that he should not be disturbed until 
he awoke. And so a mail-carrying vessel, with steam 
up and a big crowd of passengers anxious to get on, 
was detained because the commander had gone to bed 
late and had a headache and must not be disturbed! 
It was nearly ten o’clock when Captain Howell ap- 
peared on the bridge at Victoria and the order was 
given to cast off. Had that order been given at nine 
o’clock, in all human probability the ship would have 
escaped the peril which awaited her, and this dismal 
chapter would not have been written. Some people 
will persist in attributing disaster and sickness and 
ill-fortune to the Divine will, but if the whole world 
were to cry out that the Pacific was lost because God 
willed it I should say that the vessel went down be- 
cause the most ordinary precautions for safety were 
violated by her officers. I do not think that the cap- 
tain realized the importance and gravity of the duties 
he had undertaken to discharge. I do not believe he 
ever reflected that in his hands were placed the lives 
and property of several hundred of his fellow-beings 
and that upon his judgment, sobriety and care de- 
pended their safety. 

The Pacific was a bad ship and an unlucky one. 
She had been sunk once before, and for two years 
previous to the breaking out of the Cassiar gold fever 
had been laid away in the Company’s “boneyard” at 
San Francisco, from which she was taken and fitted up 
to accommodate the rush of people to the new gold- 
fields. She was innately rotten, but the paint and 
putty thickly daubed on covered much of the rotten- 
ness, as paint and powder hide the wrinkles and 
crow’s feet of a society belle, and scarcely anyone was 
aware of the ship’s real condition, although she was 


248 


The Mystic Spring, 


regarded as unsafe. A month after she had gone 
down portions of her frame that came ashore at Foul 
Bay were so decayed that you could pick them to 
pieces with your fingers. The wood about the bolt 
heads was gone and the bolts played loose in their 
sockets. The vessel was not in condition to withstand 
the impact of a severe shock; but had the officers dis- 
charged their duty there would have been no shock 
and no lost vessel, on that voyage, at least. 

As the vessel swung olf the multitude on the wharf 
gave three rousing cheers to speed departing friends 
on their way. The response was loud and hearty, and 
hands and handkerchiefs were waved and last 
messages exchanged until the vessel had disappeared 
around the first point. A belated Englishman, who 
had passed the previous night in a wild revel, and who 
had taken a ticket by the Pacific, was the “last man” 
on this occasion. As the vessel passed out the belated 
one appeared on the wharf with his hand-bag and a 
steamer trunk. He shouted and signalled, but all to 
no purpose. The boat kept on her way, and the man 
danced up and down in his rage. Then he sat down 
on his trunk and cursed the boat and all its belongings. 
His profanity was awful to hear and quite original. 
As it appeared to do him good no one interrupted 
him. When I left he was still cursing. An hour after 
he was holding down a saloon bar and pouring the 
tale of his wrongs into the receptive ears of the bar- 
keeper, who sympathetically listened and charged him 
for his sympathy at the rate of a bit per glass. When 
the toper’s money was exhausted the barkeeper led 
him outside and propped him up as an example of a 
Moral Wreck in front of a rival saloon. If the man 
read the papers five days later he must have thanked 
his stars that the captain did not put back to take him 
on board, and no doubt he recalled all his naughty 
words. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 249 

On the corner of Government and Fort Streets, as 
I passed along a few minutes later, I saw Mrs. Digby 
Palmer standing. She was gazing with glistening 
eyes toward the outer harbor. Where the Rithet 
Wharf now stands there grew on the shore quite a 
grove of tall forest trees. Above the tops of these 
trees the smoke of the departing steamer was rising 
in great black billows and losing itself in space. It 
was this smoke Mrs. Palmer was watching. As I 
approached she exclaimed : 

“I’m seeing the last of Fannie!” Alas! how true it 
was. The poor mother’s fond eyes had seen the last 
of her dear child in life. The body of that child, after 
being the sport of the cruel waves for ten days, was 
borne in the arms of the tide past her Victoria home 
and laid on the beach at San Juan Island, almost 
within sight of the house she had left a short time be- 
fore so full of life and girlish glee and happiness. 

It was Thursday when the steamer sailed. On Fri- 
day, Saturday and Sunday heavy storms prevailed, 
and the telegraph lines went down. Until Monday 
afternoon there was no communication by wire with 
the outer world. About noon on the afternoon of 
the 8th of November, Mr. W. F. Archibald, who was 
the chief operator at Victoria, received this message 
from Port Townsend : 

“A ship has arrived here with a 

* man named Jelly aboard, who was * 
picked up Saturday floating on a piece 

* of wreckage off the entrance to the ♦ 
Straits. He says the steamship Pa- 

* cific sank last Thursday night, and he ♦ 
fears that all on board were lost but 

* himself.” * 


250 


The Mystic Spring, 


Then the wires again went down, and no further 
information could be obtained through that medium. 
An hour or two later the steamer North Pacific came 
in from Puget Sound. On board of her was Henry 
F. Jelly, the rescued passenger. The whole town 
rushed to the wharf. I was fortunate in interviewing 
the man, and from him learned that the Pacific ran 
into a sailing ship while off Cape Flattery, about ten 
o’clock on the night of the day on which she sailed 
from Victoria, and sank in ten minutes. The greatest 
consternation prevailed. The officers lost their pres- 
ence of mind (if they ever had any), and the crew 
were too intent in endeavoring to ensure their own 
safety to pay attention to the passengers, who ran 
wildly about the deck and through the saloons. In 
the crush Mrs. Parsons’ child was torn from her arms 
and killed, and the last that Jelly saw of the bereaved 
mother was when she stepped into one of the boats 
still pressing her dead child to her breast. This boat 
was swamped in lowering, and all who had entrusted 
themselves to it were lost at the side of the fast sink- 
ing ship. Some oFthe life (death?) boats were found 
to have been filled with water to steady the ship, and 
before the water could be run off the passengers and 
the crew crowded in and would not get out. So all 
attempts to lower the boats had to be abandoned. 
There were a number of Chinese on board. They 
were among the first to get into the boats, and laid 
themselves down on the bottom. They were pulled 
out and thrown screaming into the sea to make room 
for white passengers. There was no order, no disci- 
pline, no one to give directions. It was every man 
for himself. All seemed to have gone stark mad in 
the face of the great danger that beset them. A rush 
was made for life-preservers. The number available 
was not sufficient, but the few bodies afterward recov- 
ered wore life-preservers. All this time the vessel 


All this Time the Vessel Was Sinking 

















AND Other Tales of Western Life 251 

was sinking, sinking, and her rail was almost even 
with the water when several of the male passengers 
leaped overboard and drowned themselves. Others 
shut themselves in their cabins and awaited the grim 
messenger calmly. There were several trained horses 
on board, the property of the Rockwell & Hurlburt 
troupe. These animals had been exhibited at Victoria 
the day before. They were gifted with rare intelli- 
gence. One, a large white gelding, was almost human 
in his knowledge. This horse was found floating in 
the Straits saddled and bridled some days after the 
wreck, and it was thought one of the troupe mounted 
him in the vain hope of being carried ashore on his 
back. The screaming and shouting of the men and 
women as they rushed back and forth wringing their 
hands and jostling and trampling down one another in 
their frenzy must have been terrible to hear and see. 
Absolutely, beyond the lowering of the one boat that 
was swamped at the side, nothing was done to save a 
single life. All was confusion and despair. The offi- 
cers might as well have been ashore for all the good 
they did on board. As the supreme moment ap- 
proached some of the unfortunates clasped hands, 
others sank on their knees and offered up hurried 
prayers. A lady passenger tore the diamonds from 
her ears and put them with a purse of gold into a 
sailor’s hand, imploring him to take them and save her 
life. Several families gathered together and with tears 
and lamentations awaited the end. The people in the 
boats made vain efforts to swing them from the davits, 
in their excitement forgetting that while they remained 
in the boats could not be lifted from the deck. In that 
spirit of selfishness which seizes upon most men in 
the face of extreme peril, no one would give up his 
place in the boats for fear some one else would occupy 
it, and so they remained helplessly huddled together 
while Death came on with ever-shortening steps. 


252 


The Mystic Spring. 


Presently the ship lurched, and every beam seemed to 
crack. A cry of despair ascended from the doomed 
company as the decks opened before the combined 
pressure of air and water with a great roar, as though 
a thousand boilers had burst simultaneously. The 
next moment the Pacific sank beneath the troubled 
waves and the sea was dotted with wreckage and 
drowning men and women, whose cries were pitiful 
to hear. Jelly, with three others, managed to secure 
a hencoop, and floated away with the tide. In a few 
minutes the last 

“Solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
Of some strong swimmer in his agony,” 

died away, and Jelly and his companions were afloat 
and, so far as they knew, alone on that wild waste of 
water. The night was intensely dark and the waves 
frequently broke over the wreckage on which the poor 
men were. Before daylight two had been washed 
away, and when the sun came up the third man went 
out of his mind, and before evening leaped into the 
sea and disappeared. Two days after the disaster 
Jelly was picked up by a passing vessel and taken to 
Port Townsend. From that port a revenue cutter was 
despatched to the scene of the wreck, and on the way 
out of the Straits Neil Henley, a quartermaster of the 
wrecked vessel, was found floating on a piece of 
wreckage and saved. He reported that Capt. Howell, 
the second mate, the cook and four passengers (one 
a young lady) were on the wreckage with him when 
the ship first went down, but all perished one by one 
until only he remained. The young lady, from the 
description, was believed to be a Miss Reynolds, of 
San Francisco, who was returning home from a visit 
to friends at the dockyard, Esquimalt. Once she was 
washed off the raft, and the second mate plunged in 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 253 

and rescued her. She resumed her place on tlie raft, 
but seemed to lose all hope. Gradually her strength 
departed and she lay motionless on the fragment until 
another wave washed her away, her heroic rescuer 
soon following. 

From Victoria a steamer was despatched to the 
vicinity of Cape Flattery. She returned in a few days 
with four bodies — three men and a woman. The men 
were identified. One was a merchant from Puyallup, 
and two were members of the Pacific’s crew. The 
rescue of Henley cleared away much of the mist that 
had obscured Jelly’s statement. Henley was asleep in 
the forecastle when the crash came. He said the water 
flowed in at the bows of the steamer with a rush. He 
was awake and on deck in an instant, and saw a large 
ship oflF the starboard bow. This vessel afterwards 
proved to be the American ship Orpheus, bound for 
Puget Sound in ballast. She was commanded by C. 
A. Sawyer, who made no eflFort to assist the Pacific, 
but stood off for Vancouver Island, and a day or two 
later his vessel was hopelessly wrecked in Barclay 
Sound. His excuse for his inaction was that he be- 
lieved his own vessel to be sinking, and he explained 
that he stood across the Pacific’s bows, and so caused 
the collision, for the purpose of speaking to her and 
learning his whereabouts. He always claimed that 
had there been a proper lookout on the steamer there 
would have been no disaster. H. M. S. Repulse passed 
out of the Straits on the night of the wreck, and it 
was said by some of the sailors that they reported to 
the captain that blue lights were burning on the port 
side, but that no attention was paid to the report ! 

The woman whose body was brought in was a 
tourist who was returning to San Francisco. About 
ten days after the disaster the body of Miss Palmer 
was brought from San Juan Island and buried during 
a heavy fall of snow, which blocked with great drifts 


254 


The Mystic Spring, 


and heaps the roads leading to the cemetery — nature 
had sent the dead girl a winding-sheet. In spite of 
the storm the cortege was one of the largest ever seen 
in Victoria, so great was the sympathy felt for the 
father and mother of the bright young spirit whose 
light had been so untimely quenched. 

As the days wore on other bodies came ashore and 
were either brought to Victoria or interred where 
found. At Beacon Hill, ten days after the wreck, I 
saw the body of Mr. Conway, whom I had gone to the 
wharf to see on the morning the steamer sailed, rolling 
in the surf. The body was easily recognized. When 
the ship sailed he had a large sum of money in his 
possession, but when he was picked up everything of 
value was gone. 

One day some Beechy Bay Indians arrived in the 
harbor in a canoe towing another canoe in which was 
the body of a large man. The body was recognized 
as the remains of J. H. Sullivan, the Cassiar Gold 
Commissioner, who had sailed with high hopes of soon 
being with his friends in Ireland, and spending the 
Christmas holidays with them. In his pockets was 
found a considerable sum in drafts and gold, a gold 
watch and chain, and a pocket diary. In the diary, evi- 
dently written just before the unfortunate gentleman 
had retired to his cabin, was this entry : 

“Left Victoria for old Ireland on 

* Thursday, 4th, about noon. Passed * 
Cape Flattery about 4 p. m. Some of 

* the miners drunk; some ladies sick; * 
feel sorry at temporarily leaving a 

* country in which I have lived so long; * 
spent last evening at dear old Hillside.” 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 255 

About a month after the ship had gone down, and 
when the first burst of grief had been replaced by a 
feeling of resignation, and while the shores were still 
patrolled for many miles in the hope of finding more 
bodies, a man walking along the southern face of 
Beacon Hill observed a fragment of wreckage lying 
high and dry on the beach. Upon examination it 
proved to be part of a stateroom stanchion or support, 
and on its white surface were written in a bold busi- 
ness hand, with a pencil, these words : 

“S. P. MOODY. ALL LOST.” 

The handwriting was identified as that of S. P. 
Moody, the principal owner of the Moody ville Saw- 
mills, who was a passenger. It is supposed that when 
he found the ship going down and no hope remained 
of saving his life, Mr. Moody wrote this “message 
from the sea” on the stanchion in the faint hope that 
it might some day be picked up, and his fate known. 
This hope was not in vain, and I believe the piece of 
wreckage with the inscription upon it is still cherished 
by the Moody family. 

A remarkable instance of presence of mind in the 
face of death was furnished when the steamer Brother 
Jonathan was lost off the Oregon coast in 1866 or 
’67. On board was a Scotch gentleman named Nesbit. 
He was on his way to Victoria when the ship struck 
a rock. One boat with eighteen persons got off, but all 
the people who remained on board — including a major- 
general of the U. S. Army and his staff and the officers 
of the vessel — were lost. Some days after the disaster 
the body of Mr. Nesbit was found floating at sea. 
Upon searching the clothing it was ascertained that 
while the vessel was going down he had actually made 
his will, writing it with lead pencil on the leaf of a 
memorandum book. Placing the book in his pocket he 


The Mystic Spring, 


256 

had buttoned up his coat and awaited his fate with the 
calmness of a hero. 

Inquests held upon the bodies that were found 
placed the blame on the Orpheus for crossing the 
steamer’s bows and so causing the collision. The in- 
efficiency of the watch on the steamer was condemned, 
and the condition of the boats was denounced ; but 
nothing ever came of the verdict. The owners of the 
steamer were never prosecuted, and the officers were all 
dead. The families who were bereft of their bread- 
winners were not compensated for their loss, but after 
the lapse of these many years the occurrence and its 
accompanying horrors are still remembered by those 
who lost their friends or who were active participants 
in the after events. 

How many hearts were broken in consequence of 
the disaster will never be known. Such unfortunates 
usually suffer in silence. I knew of one case where a 
young and industrious mechanic, whose sweetheart 
went down with the wreck, was never known to do a 
day’s work afterwards. When the first paroxysm of 
grief had passed he was accustomed to walk listlessly 
along the water front and accost the master of every 
vessel that came in from the sea with inquiries as to 
whether any more of the Pacific’s people had been res- 
cued. The reply was always in the negative, and he 
would walk off with a dejected air. Finally he went 
away and probably died in some lunatic asylum or hos- 
pital. About fifty families were broken up and scat- 
tered, and many came upon the public for maintenance. 
There were two suicides at San Francisco in conse- 
quence of the disaster, and there were many instances 
of actual distress of which the public never heard. In 
all their details the circumstances attending the loss of 
the Pacific are among the most heartrending that ever 
came under my notice. 

I have often narrated the dreadful story of the loss 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 257 

of the Pacific to friends who had heard only a vagiie 
account of it, and on several occasions as I concluded 
the narrative I have been asked which incident of the 
many pathetic ones connected with the wreck dwelt 
most in my mind. In other words, which of the oc- 
currences that led up (or down) to the sinking im- 
pressed me most. I have always replied that, sweeping 
aside every consideration of sympathetic interest in 
the fate of the many acquaintances who were rushed 
into eternity in an instant, as it were — forgetting for a 
time the awful sensations those on board that ship 
must have experienced when the truth was forced 
upon them that they were beyond all human help and 
that the sun had set forever upon their earthly careers 
— that in the full flush of manhood and womanhood 
they were booked and their berths engaged for that 
“bourne whence no traveller returns” — I say I have 
always replied that the one picture which presents 
itself to my mind when I recall the awful event is that 
of the bonnie little blue-eyed boy to whom I said fare- 
well as the gang plank was drawn in. I had never 
seen him before — he was neither kith nor kin of mine 
— but whenever I think of the going down of the 
Pacific his sweet face appears before me — sometimes 
as I last saw it, full of beauty, confidence, and mirth; 
and again wearing an expression of keen anguish and 
horror, the bright eyes filled with tears and the hands 
held out in a vain petition to be saved from an im- 
pending doom. Since I sat down to write this sad 
story he had been with me every moment of the time; 
and once I thought I heard him repeat what I have 
often in the silent hours of the day or night imagined 
I heard him say: “You placed me in this coffin; can- 
not you help me out ?” Alas ! if I had but known. 


258 


The Mystic SpRiNGy 




THE HAUNTED MAN. 

“And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 

And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot. 

And thereby hangs a tale.” 

— Shakespeare. 

The circumstances I am about to relate occurred in 
the year 1861, The facts were known to a few who 
lived here at the time ; but I believe that with the ex- 
ception of myself there is not now living a single 
person who was cognizant of the extraordinary com- 
bination of events which I intend now to put into print 
for the first time. 

Nearly every old resident knew John George Saylor. 
He was alive as late as 1891 and his bones lie at Ross 
Bay. He was an Irishman, and came here from Aus- 
tralia in 1859. He had been a miner, a rebel, a con- 
stable and a member of the Gold Escort in that col- 
ony, and possessed remarkable detective instincts. He 
was one of the most intelligent men who ever joined 
the Victoria police force, and being strong and fear- 
less, resourceful, and keen-witted as a razor-blade, he 
was generally selected to inquire into involved cases 
that required a mind of more than ordinary capacity 
to unravel. I do not think I ever met a man whose 
judgment upon all matters connected with the dis- 
charge of a constable’s duties could be so implicitly 
relied on as Saylor’s. In Australia, when he mined at 
Ballarat, the miners at those diggings rebelled against 
tne imposition of an obnoxious tax and took up arms, 
inaugfurating what was afterwards referred to as the 
“Ballarat War.” Troops were sent to the diggings 
and several miners were killed; but the next Parlia- 
ment removed the impost. Saylor used to relate with 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 259 

dramatic effect how the miners afterwards elected one 
of their class to represent them in Parliament, and 
how his constituents shod his horse with pure gold 
and escorted him, ten thousand strong, to the Govern- 
ment Buildings and placed him on the seat of the 
mighty amid the enthusiastic plaudits of the multi- 
tude. 

Saylor brought some money here, and during the 
fifteen years he remained on the force added to it by 
means known only to detectives and their patrons, so 
that when he died he had the tidy sum of $30,000 to 
bequeath to the Protestant Orphans’ Home, which 
placed that meritorious institution upon its financial 
legs. 

It will be readily understood that many strange 
characters came to the Colony in the days of which 
I write. Some had been men of importance in the 
Old Country, but had allowed liquor, cards or some 
other bad habit to run away with their brains, and 
leave them morally and financially stranded in a com- 
munity that had once conferred honors upon them. 
Many of these men bore assumed names. I remem- 
ber one gentleman — and he was as kind and good- 
hearted a creature as I ever met, more sinned against 

than sinning, I feel sure — who posed as Mr. L- d 

and who was about to offer himself as a candidate for 
the Legislature. 

“What is the name of that party?” asked a new 
arrival, as he pointed to Mr. L— — d on the street one 
day. 

“L d,” was the reply. 

“I’ll wager you a hundred pounds that his name is 
P n.” 

“I won’t bet; but you ought to be sure before you 
make such an assertion.” 

“Well, I’ll prove it,” replied the other, and stepping 


26o The Mystic Spring, 

in front of the advancing man he extended his hand 
and asked: 

“How are you, Mr. P n? When did you leave 

Manchester ?” 

The person thus addressed recoiled as if he had been 
struck a hard blow and gasped out : 

“For heaven’s sake, man, don’t speak that name. I 
am L d here.” 

“I know you are, but you are P n, all the same.” 

“Have mercy ! Have mercy ! I am trying to lead a 
better life. Don’t expose me ; please don’t !” he begged. 

The newcomer was merciless. Addressing two or 
three bystanders, he pointed to the poor, shaking devil 
and exclaimed: 

“Gentlemen, this is P n, the great Manchester 

defaulter. Take a good look so that you’ll know him 
again. With a Bow Street runner at his heels he has 
the cheek to stand for your Parliament, I hear.” 

The wretched man slunk away. All his airy castles 
were dissipated, all his hopes to do better had been 
shattered, and all he had left him now was to hide — 
crawl into some retreat where no person who had 
known him in the days when he passed for an honest 
man and was respected and influential would ever 
again see him. The next day he was gone and none 
could ever tell whither he went. Poor fellow ! — how 
sorry I felt for him and how I loathed the man who 
exposed him. 

Another man had been a successful dry goods dealer 
in London. His store was frequented by the highest 
in the land. One day a shopwalker thought he de- 
tected a lady in the act of stealing an article from one 
of the counters and secreting it in her dress. He laid 
his hand on the lady’s shoulder and asked her to step 
into a back room. She threw off the hand with indig- 
nation and bade him begone. In spite of her protesta- 
tions of innocence she was forced into a room. She 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 261 


tendered the card of a lady of distinction. The owner 
of the establishment, who happened to have lunched 
generously that day, threw the card on the floor with 
the remark, “Impostor!” He ordered a female to 
search the lady for plunder. Nothing that belonged 
to the establishment was found upon her. Profuse 
apologies were tendered and declined. A suit for 
damages was instituted. The public ceased to buy at 
the store, trade fell off and in a year’s time the man’s 
name appeared in the Gazette. He came to Victoria 
with an assumed name and some money and built a 
large wooden place on Fort Street above Douglas, 
which he called the “Fort Street Chambers.” Few 
rented the rooms and in a short time he went away 
and was never heard of more. 

There were many other characters who came here 
during the rush. Financial wrecks seem, like the 
camp-followers of an army, to join every movement 
which appears to offer them an opportunity for ex- 
citement. I met them in Kootenay and on Fraser 
River; they were seen at Cariboo and on the Yukon. 
Always the same — the lapse of time seemed to make 
no difference. The personnel, of course, had changed 
entirely in the half century that intervened, but the 
reasons that inspired the adventurers of that day to 
seek a change actuated their imitators of the later 
period. 

One night Detective Saylor came to my office and 
told me that he had watched a strangely-acting man 
for some weeks, off and on, and had been unable to 
find out the slightest thing about him. “And yet,” said 
he, “the man acts as if he had committed a murder 
some time in the past. In fact, he’s haunted I” 

“What!” asked I, “you surely don’t believe in such 
things as ghosts?” 

“Well, no,” he replied, “I don’t ; but that man thinks 
he is haunted, and I think he is, too. He imagines that 


262 


The Mystic Spring, 


he is followed by a child. He fancies he hears the 
patter, patter of little feet on the sidewalk, and some- 
times he thinks he hears the rustle of a dress as if 
some woman were walking by his side.” 

“Do you hear them, too ?” I asked. 

“No, I never hear a thing; and yet the poor soul, 
while I am with him, hears the fall of the feet and the 
swish of the dress and starts and trembles and breaks 
into a cold sweat. I don’t believe he ever sleeps — at 
least not at night. I meet him at all hours walking 
swiftly along the street with his head bent and his 
eyes fixed on the ground. At first I thought he was 
a burglar and tracked him, but he never stopped any- 
where or did anything — just walked all night. To- 
wards morning he goes to his room in the Fort Street 
Chambers and does not appear again till nightfall. I 
often engage him in conversation. He is mighty in- 
telligent and has been a great traveller. He’ll talk until 
he hears the patter of the little feet and the swish of 
the gown and then he’ll start off like the wind. He’s 
been somebody some day, but he’s crazy now, or next 
door to it.” ! 

“I say, Saylor,” I said, “I’d like to get acquainted 
with that man. If I can’t see a ghost I’d like to do the 
next thing to it — talk with a man who has seen one.” 

There was at that time on Yates Street a place 
called the Fashion Hotel; it was the resort of the 
young men of the day. Music as well as liquor was 
dispensed there and the attendants on the tables were 
women — not all pretty or young, but very pleasant 
and, as far as I ever knew, very respectable. It was 
arranged that Saylor should steer the haunted man 
into the Fashion on a certain night, and that I should 
meet them there as if by accident. The arrangement 
was carried out. I was introduced as Mr. Smithers 
and the man’s name as given me was Cole. He was 
really most presentable and chatted away like a man 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 263 

who had seen the world. He seemed quite sensible. 
We smoked and drank and conversed for an hour on 
different subjects, and finally we separated without his 
having given the slightest evidence that he was 
haunted or that he was other than a staid, respectable 
gentleman enjoying a quiet evening with friends. 

About two o’clock the next morning, when on my 
way to my room in Ringo’s Hotel, I almost ran against 
my new acquaintance. He stood by the side of an 
awning post and I just managed to make him out by 
the feeble gleam thrown from a street lamp. 

“Halloa !” I exclaimed, “you’re out late.” 

“Yes,” he replied, “but I’m not the only one. There 
are others who are out late, too.” 

I thought he referred to me, so I laughed as I told 
him that my profession required me to keep late hours. 

“Oh, I don’t mean you,” he rejoined; “I refer to 
others.” 

Then the story Saylor had told me about the man 
being dogged by the sound of a child’s footsteps and 
the rustle of a woman’s dress occurred to me. A 
creepy feeling began to run up my spine and my hair 
acted as if it were about to rise and lift my hat from 
my head. I wished myself safe in bed and made a 
sudden movement to open the street door and ascend 
the stairs, when the lunatic, murderer, or whatever he 
was, laid a strong hand on my shoulder. 

“Hold !” he said. “Stay with me — please.” 

“No,” I replied, as calmly as I could, “I must go to 
bed. I am sleepy and tired.” 

Without noticing what I said, the man retained his 
hold on my arm and hoarsely whispered : 

“Did you hear it?” 

“Hear what?” I demanded, as I tried in vain to 
throw off his grip. 

“That — that child walking! Listen to the patter of 
its footsteps ! Surely you can hear it. Listen !” 


264 


The Mystic Spring, 


I listened, but heard nothing and so told the man. 

“By heavens !” he shouted. “You are deceiving me. 
Everyone tells me the same. You do hear it. You 
must hear it. You lie! Everyone lies!” 

I struggled to free myself and succeeded; but he 
grasped me again. Then I realized that I was in the 
hands of a stronger man than myself. Again I strug- 
gled and again I succeeded in freeing myself. I 
started for the stairs, hoping to avoid him. By a 
strange fatality the latch of the door, which was 
always supposed to be held back by a catch, to allow 
roomers coming late to bed to enter without arousing 
the household, was sprung and the door was fastened 
tight. I turned and faced the man, making a feint as 
if to draw a weapon. To my surprise he calmed down 
instantly, and instead of an aggressive attitude he 
assumed a pleading tone. 

“Forgive me,” he said; “I was excited. I thought 
you must have heard what I always hear — night and 
day — morning, noon and night. No matter where I 
am they are always with me — the soft patter, patter of 
a child’s feet and the rustle, rustle of a woman’s dress. 
I hear them now — I hear them always, if I lie down 
or stand up. I have gone a thousand feet below the 
earth’s crust in a mine and the sounds were there. I 
have ascended two thousand feet in a hot-air balloon, 
and all the time the little feet and the gown made 
themselves heard and felt in the atmosphere. Some- 
times I fall asleep for a few minutes and then I 
awake with a start and the sounds break upon my ear 
and I can sleep no more. It is torture, torture, and it 
is wearing me out. I cannot live much longer — I 
ought to die, anyhow. I am a lost man. I wonder,” 
he added, with a deep touch of pathos in his voice, “if 
the sounds will follow me beyond the grave — if when 
I have departed for the Great Unknown Land they will 
accompany me and like accusing spirits give evidence 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 263 

against me!” He buried his face in his hands and 
seemed to weep. 

I felt that I could listen no longer. The weird talk 
of the man, the ferocious air with which he had ac- 
costed me, the uncanny hour which he had chosen for 
the relation of his troubles to me, a stranger, and the 
feeling that I was unarmed and entirely at the mercy 
of a madman, if not a murderer, who had fled from 
the scene of his crime, alarmed me and I knocked 
loudly on the door for admittance. Presently I heard 
a window raised and the rumble of a familiar voice 
broke like sweet music on my eager ear. 

“Who’s dar ?” asked the voice. 

“Ringo,” I said, “come down and let me in- 
quick I” 

“Am dat do’ locked?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ain’t you got no key ?” 

“No.” 

Presently Ringo was heard descending the stairs, 
then the door was flung back and there stood the land- 
lord on the lowest step. He held a lighted candle high 
above his head in one hand, while in the other he car- 
ried a short club. I recall that he wore a long white 
nightgown of tremendous proportions, for he was very 
tall and wide. He had an enormous mouth, around 
the corners of which there always played a smile, for, 
like Mark Tapley, he was ever good-natured, even 
when the sheriff’s deputy dogged his heels, an often oc- 
currence. On this occasion his head was crowned by 
a flaring red nightcap, tied with tape under one of his 
two or three chins. (Everyone wore the nightcap in 
those days on his head. The present fashion, I believe, 
is to swallow the nightcap and wear it in one’s internal 
economy.) The grotesque figure the poor old darkey 
cut as he peered into the darkness until his eyes en- 
countered mine can never be effaced from my mem- 


266 


The Mystic Spring, 


ory. Whenever it comes back to me I have to laugH, 
but at the time I felt little like laughing. 

“Ringo,” said I, “lend me that club.” 

He complied and I turned swiftly around to face 
my antagonist. To my surprise no one was there. 
The man had vanished. I listened and failed to hear 
the faintest sound of retracing footsteps. 

“What am de mattah?” asked Ringo. 

“There was a lunatic here who assaulted me.” 

The old man came out on the sidewalk with his 
candle and gazed up and down the road, shook his 
head, looked at me earnestly for a moment and then 
asked, with one of his inimitable and never-to-be-for- 
gotten grins: 

“Has you bin drinkin’?” 

“No, Ringo,” I replied, “not a drop.” 

“Well, dar ain’t no loo-na-tick har.” 

“No,” I said, “he’s run off.” 

Ringo shook his head again, chuckled and grinned 
until the corners of his vast mouth lost themselves 
somewhere in the neighborhood of his capacious ears, 
then, with the air of a father admonishing a wayward 
child, he pointed his fat forefinger at me and said sol- 
emnly: “You was at the Fashion last night. I seen 
you dar. Keep dat up, young man, and ’stead of 
loo-na-ticks you’ll see snakes nex’ time. You’d best 
go to bed and sleep it off.” 

I always liked Ringo and knew that his advice, al- 
though most unnecessary on this occasion, was well 
meant, so I said nothing and marched off to my room. 
While I was in the act of disrobing a knock came at 
the door. 

“Who’s there?” I asked. 

“I wants to know,” said Ringo’s voice, “if I shall 
send you up a cocktail in de mornin’ to steady yer 
nerbes ?” 

“No,” I thundered. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 267 

Then I heard the old man laugh as he shambled off 
along the passage and all was still. I slept soundly 
and in the morning told Saylor all about my encoun- 
ter, and he proposed to ‘Tun Cole in,” which is police 
parlance for arresting a man. I begged him to wait 
awhile and see if we could not find out more about 
the stranger and his antecedents. So the hand of 
justice was stayed. 

Several days passed and I saw nothing of Cole. 
Saylor told me that he met him nearly every night and 
that one day, under pretence of wishing to see another 
man, he had knocked at room No. 4, Fort Street 
Chambers, and the door was opened by Cole in per- 
son. The visitor was invited to enter, “and,” said 
Saylor, “I found everything in order. He had just 
got out of bed, but the room was bright and all the 
appointments were cleanly. There were nice white 
sheets on the bed and there was a pretty bedroom set. 
In one corner a grate fire was burning and at the 
warm blaze the man cooked his meals. Taken alto- 
gether, he’s much better fixed than I am, and I’d hate 
to have him look into my sleeping quarters after seeing 
his.” 

“Did you find out anything more about him?” I 
asked. 

“Nothing, except that I saw a daguerreotype case 
on the table. I took it up and opened it, and got a 
glimpse of a very sweet-looking young woman with a 
child of about three years of age at her side. I only 
had a glimpse, because Cole, who was busy at the grate 
making me a cup of tea, turned quickly around and 
tore the case from my hands, muttering some word 
that sounded much like an oath, and put it in his 
pocket. He apologized instantly for his rudeness, say- 
ing that he had one of his queer turns. He offered no 
explanation for his singular conduct, but the rest of 
the time that I was there he shivered like a man with 


268 


The Mystic Spring, 


the ague and kept hearing things — I am sure he did, 
because he often looked over his shoulder and twice 
got up and peered under the bed and table.” 

“What do you make of the fellow, anyhow?” I 
asked. 

“I put it up that he’s an escaped murderer from 
somewhere, that his victims were the woman and child 
whom I saw in the case, and that it is their ghosts that 
haunt him.” 

I met Cole frequently in the daytime, but never 
again at night. He seemed to avoid the settled part 
of the town after sundown. I was tempted to call at 
the Chambers, but never yielded to the temptation. To 
be frank, I stood in wholesome dread of the man. I 
regarded him as a crazy criminal, and I had no fancy 
for another encounter with an irresponsible person 
such as he clearly was. 

One day Saylor came to me. His eyes were dancing 
in his head with excitement, and as soon as the door 
was closed and the rest of the world was shut out of 
my room he began : 

“You know that poor soul. Cole? Of course you do. 
Well, when I picked up the daguerreotype case in his 
room, as I told you, I saw “Shanklin, daguerreotypist, 
Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, U. S. A.,” stamped on the 
gilt rim that surrounded the pictures. I only caught 
a glimpse, but I remembered the name and address, 
and I wrote to Shanklin, etc., and told him about see- 
ing the portraits with his name on as maker and asked 
if he knew the parties. I also described Cole as well 
as I could. To-day I got an answer from Mr. Shank- 
Hn telling me that my information is most valuable; 
that there have been anxious enquiries made for many 
months as to the whereabouts of one James Coleman, 
who disappeared two years before from Pittsburg; 
that the portraits are those of his wife and child and 
that the description I gave of the man answered the 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 269 

description given of James Coleman in a handbill sent 
out by the police and which I now have. Then,” con- 
tinued the detective, ‘T have a letter signed by one 
Tardell, who calls himself Chief of Police, asking me 
to keep a close watch on Cole and telling me that a 
party will leave Pittsburg immediately for Victoria to 
take him in charge. So I have located him at last,” 
concluded Saylor, “and he shan’t slip through my fin- 
gers. He undoubtedly murdered his wife and child 
and that is why he is haunted by them. Do I believe 
in ghosts? Yes, from this on I am a believer in them. 
They have brought this wretch to justice, and he will 
be surely hanged for his crime. No wonder that he 
hears the footfalls of a child and the swish of a wom- 
an’s dress. The scoundrel ! I am surprised that their 
dying cries do not haunt him, too.” And so the de- 
tective rattled on and on until, the subject being ex- 
hausted, he retired and left me to my reflections, which 
were not of the pleasantest. I agreed with Saylor — 
Cole was a cruel murderer who was about to be pun- 
ished for his crime through the assistance given by 
agents from the spirit world. “Be sure your sin will 
find you out,” I repeated over and over again as I 
awaited impatiently the coming of the day when Cole 
would be laid by the heels and sent back to Pittsburg 
for punishment. 

In those days it required about eight weeks for a 
person to reach Victoria tna Panama and San Fran- 
cisco from New York, and nearly two months fled 
before anything more was heard from the East. It 
was in the month of May that Saylor came to me with 
a queer look on his usually immobile face, and said : 

“Those parties arrived last night!” I understood 
that he meant the parties in quest of Cole. “Yes,” 
he continued, “and I have arranged to point the man 
out to them to-day.” 

“The villain’ll be much surprised/’ I remarked. 


2/0 


The Mystic Spring, 


“Yes, indeed,” returned Saylor, “and he’ll not be 
the only surprised person either. There are others 
who will be astonished.” 

“Do you mean that his crime was shared by others 
who are now here?” 

“I mean that Cole will not be the only surprised 
party to-day. Good-morning,” and he hurried off to 
keep his engagement. 

About four o’clock that afternoon Fort Street was 
the scene of a very remarkable incident. A tall, dark 
man was seen to emerge from the Fort Street Cham- 
bers and walk rapidly toward Douglas Street. As he 
neared the corner, Saylor stepped out of a doorway 
and accosted him. The man shook the detective’s 
hand warmly. Saylor laid a hand on the other’s arm 
as if to detain him, and the two engaged in an ani- 
mated conversation for a few minutes. The detective 
afterward described the interview as follows: 

“Have you heard them lately?” he asked. 

“Yes, I hear them all the time. Last night and this 
morning they were worse than ever.” 

“How do you account for them?” 

“Oh ! I don’t know. It must be nervousness.” 

“Did you ever do anything wrong — did you ever kill 
anyone, for instance ?” 

“No, no, thank God, no!” he returned with fervor, 
“at least not intentionally ; but I know that the woman 
and child who haunt me are dead and that I murdered 
them by my ill-conduct.” 

Still retaining his hold on the other’s arm Saylor 
turned him slowly around till he faced the East and 
then beckoned to some person who stood within a 
store. 

“Do you hear anything now?” asked Saylor. 

“No — yes — yes! I hear behind me a child’s foot- 
steps, and — oh my God ! the rustle of a woman’s gar- 


r 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 271 

merits. Do you not hear them? You must hear them. 
They are clear and plain.” 

“Yes,” returned Saylor, “I hear them distinctly 
now — for the first time I hear them.” 

“Release me !” exclaimed the man, “I must walk on 
until the end.” 

He throws off the detective’s grasp and turns swiftly 
around, as though preparing to fly from the spot. He 
starts convulsively! Merciful heavens! What is the 
sight that meets his frenzied gaze and makes him reel 
like a strong man suddenly struck with death, while 
he clutches the thin air for support? He utters a cry 
like a wild animal in pain and falls backward just as 
a young woman and a little girl advance with stream- 
ing eyes and outstretched hands. 

“They told me you and Dorothy were dead!” he 
gasps. 

“Jem — husband — have I found you at last? Thank 
God, I did not die!” the woman cries in pitiful ac- 
cents. “You were not to blame. It was the work of 
that wicked woman who led you astray, Jem — dear 
Jem! — I forgive everything. Come home and we shall 
be happy once more, I was very sick, for I loved you 
all the time, but I felt that some day we should be 
brought together again. Come, dear, come !” 

The man makes a motion as if he would fly; but the 
woman grasps his hand and implores him to hear her. 
He pauses ere his flight has begun and, with the ever- 
ready Saylor on one side and the woman and the child 
on the other, suffers himself to be led into a little 
room at the rear of the store, and there, Saylor said, 
he left them locked in each other’s arms and shedding 
tears as if their overcharged hearts would break. 

“Do you still believe in ghosts, Saylor?” I asked a 
day or two afterwards. 

“Well, no; not exactly. But I believe in a con- 
science, although I don’t know that I have got one 


272 


The Mystic Spring, 


myself. It was remorse that ailed Cole or Coleman. 
He had deserted his wife and child and was afraid to 
return or write home. She loved him and paid the 
Pittsburg police to hunt him up, for her father has 
heaps of money. His conscience made him a coward 
and made him hear things. But, by Jove! it took an 
Australian-Irishman to bring them together again, 
and my fee was $i,ooo, which I have got sure enough.” 

“Does he still hear things?” I asked. 

“Oh, yes, he hears the childish footfalls and the 
woman’s garments swishing; but he now sees as well 
as hears the child and the woman and does not fear 
them any more. They will return home. It was a 
lucky thing for all concerned that I picked up that 
daguerreotype case, wasn’t it?” 

I acquiesced and the incident was closed when Mr. 
and Mrs. Coleman and child, united and happy once 
more, left for home on the next steamer. 


DEVILED SAUSAGES. 

“O, I have passed a miserable night. 

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights. 

That as I am a Christian faithful man, 

I would not spend another such a night. 

Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days.” 

— Shakespeare. 

In an earlier chapter of these chronicles allusion 
was made to the presence of a large number of South- 
erners who gathered at Victoria at the outbreak of 
the war between the North and South and formed a 
numerous colony for the dissemination of Southern 
ideas and the adoption of plans for the destruction of 
American commerce in the Pacific. Among the most 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 273 

energetic of these colonists were a Mr. and Mrs. 
Pusey, who were described in the “Sweet Marie” 
chapter as occupying rooms at the St. Nicholas Ho- 
tel, now the Savoy, where they entertained lavishly. 
All whom they welcomed were friendly to the cause 
of the South. Mrs. Pusey was certainly a charming 
hostess — she was about forty — large, tall and hand- 
some, and elegantly gowned. If the gems she wore 
on her fingers were real they were worth a goodly 
sum, while her solitaire earrings were large and ap- 
parently of the finest water. Her husband was a 
cipher, a lean, meek little man, with iron-gray hair 
and a slinking-to-the-wall manner. He was often 
snubbed by his overpowering wife and was forced to 
take a back seat whenever a discussion arose. I have 
seen Mrs. Pusey, to enforce an argument, bring down 
her jewelled hand with a resounding smack that caused 
the glasses to dance and the table to tremble beneath 
the weight of the blow, if not the weight of her in- 
tellect, while her opponents invariably yielded the 
point under discussion. 

On one occasion two sweet young Southern girls 
paid Mrs. Pusey a visit. Their names were Elsie 
Reynolds and Mary Eccles. They were extremely 
pleasant in their manners, could sing and play well 
and were good conversationalists. Their presence at 
the St. Nicholas caused quite a sensation among the 
young men who then resided in Victoria, and many 
were the plans adopted to secure introductions. It 
was given out that no Northerner need apply, and that 
any cards from gentlemen from the North would be 
promptly returned. There was no objection, how- 
ever, to the subjects of Queen Victoria, even if they 
were imbued with Northern ideas, for it was hoped 
by Mrs. Pusey that the influence of the young ladies 
would be successfully exerted in bringing about a 
change of heart in the Britishers. 


«74 


The Mystic Spring, 


Now, among the many who called upon the ^rfs 
was a Mr. Richard Lovell, who was supposed to be a 
Southern sympathizer, but who was really a spy of 
the United States Government, detailed to watch the 
Southern colonists at Victoria. Lovell was received 
with enthusiasm by the unsuspecting girls and their 
friends, and presently he was to be seen escorting 
them along Government Street, across the old James 
Bay bridge, and thence over the numerous trails that 
led to the park, dilating as he went upon the beauties 
of Beacon Hill and the grandeur of the scenery that 
captivates the senses of visitors to that charming spot. 
Some days passed before I found time to wait upon 
the young ladies, and when I finally called I found 
the small reception room of the St. Nicholas more 
than comfortably filled with young men. Miss Rey- 
nolds, accompanied by her friend, was in the expiring 
notes of “Kathleen Mavourneen.” To say that she 
sang well would be to award her scant praise. She 
sang the piece divinely, in a rich, clear, delightful so- 
prano. The windows were open, for the night was 
warm, and her voice as it rose and fell on the evening 
air attracted and charmed many passers-by, who had 
congregated in front of the New England on the 
opposite side of the street, and who clapped enthusi- 
astically when the song was ended. 

When I was presented I was made at my ease in- 
stantly by the warmth of my reception and the gra- 
cious manner with which I was told, ‘T have heard of 
you often,” “So glad you have called at last,” “Feared 
that you would never come,” etc., etc., until, my 
vanity having been plentifully ministered to, I was in- 
vited to take a seat with the elect near the piano. 
Other songs followed. Miss Reynolds gave another 
solo, which having been applauded, she and Miss 
Eccles, accompanied by Mrs. Pusey, sang sweetly a 
du^t which was then very popular: “Come Where 


AND Other Tales of Western Life S75 

My Love Lies Dreaming.” The company insisting 
upon an encore, the girls gave “Holy Mother, Guide 
His Footsteps,” from Wallace’s opera of “Maritana.” 
It was a charming rendering of a beautiful vocal 
piece, and the skillful execution won the hearts of all 
present. I have in my possession the identical pieces 
of music from which they sang on that lovely evening, 
forty-one years ago. After the music Miss Eccles 
gave a recitation. It was something about a soldier’s 
grave, but although it was very well done after the 
singing I had no ears for or sympathy with anything 
else. I just wanted to listen to more songs, but, of 
course, I said nothing and accepted everything with 
apparent satisfaction. After the recitation a waiter 
brought in a tray on which were cocoa and cake for 
the young ladies, and something stronger, with crack- 
ers, for the gentlemen and the mature ladies, of whom 
there were several present. I do not remember how it 
all came about, but before I left the room I had en- 
gaged the young ladies for a walk to Beacon Hill on 
the following day and a theatrical performance in the 
evening. 

The next morning about eight o’clock a knock at 
the door of my room aroused me from a sound sleep. 

“Who’s there?” I asked. 

“Mrs. Pusey,” I thought a low voice replied. 

I sprang out of my bed, threw a blanket about me 
and opened the door just a little bit. 

“What do you want?” I asked in as soft and gentle 
a tone as I could command. 

“I want to come in,” said the voice in a low tone. 

“But you can’t. I’m not dressed. Good gracious! 
what would people say? I can’t let you in just now! 
Please go away for a little while.” 

“But,” insisted the voice in a loud whisper, “I must 
come in.” 


276 


The Mystic Spring, 


“Dear lady,” I began — “dear madam, you must not 
come in — it would be awful.” 

“Why,” said the little voice, “Who do you think I 
am?” 

“Are you not Mrs. Pusey?” 

At this moment the little opening in the door was 
filled with the small, shrinking figure of a man, and 
I now discovered that I had made a funny error. In- 
stead of the overpowering Mrs. Pusey the small voice 
belonged to her tiny spouse. I was greatly relieved, 
and throwing the door open invited him to enter. 

“I hear, er — er — er — ” he began in a hesitating, 
stammering manner, “that you have made an engage- 
ment with one or lx)th of the young ladies who are 
under our care?” 

Having thus delivered himself he gazed at the ceil- 
ing and seemed to wish he was a mile or two away. 

A vision of a suit for breach of promise floated be- 
fore my eyes. Had I got drunk overnight and pro- 
posed to both girls and been accepted? With a feel- 
ing of great anxiety I asked, “What do you mean?” 

“I er — er mean that I — that is, we — can’t permit 
any such thing to be carried out. I — we object.” 

“Object to what?” I interrupted. 

“Well we — er — er — object as strongly as we can to 
your proposal to ” 

“My good sir,” I cried, “I have not proposed to 
anyone! Are you mad, or am I? I wish you would 
stop stammering and tell me what you mean or leave 
the room.” 

“Well, if you will let me tell you, I will. We — that 
is Mrs. Pusey, objects to your proposal to take the 
young ladies to the theatre without a er — er — er, you 
know. What do you call it? — er — chaperone.” 

“Oh,” I said, much relieved. “Thank goodness it’s 
no worse. What do you want me to do ?” 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 277 

“I think you had better call on Mrs. Pusey after 
breakfast,” he said. “She arranges all such matters.” 

This I agreed to do. Ten o’clock found me tapping 
on the Pusey door. It was opened by a little colored 
girl, who, after admitting me, discreetly withdrew. 
After a few minutes’ desultory conversation the lady 
said: 

“I have sent for you to suggest that as we are in 
an English country, where it is usual to have a chaper- 
one accompany young ladies to places of amusement, 
I must decline to let my young ladies go to the theatre 
to-night unless there is a mature person to look after 
them.” 

“Very well,” I replied, “suppose I ask Mr. Pusey 
to go with us?” 

“No,” she said, “he wouldn’t do at all — he would 
be worse than no one. He’s half blind, anyhow.” 

“Well, how would Mrs. Clinton” (another guest at 
the hotel) “answer?” 

“Wha — at ! A woman who has had three husbands 
and two of them living! A nice example for my dear 
girls. No, indeed!” 

“How would Mrs. Curtis, my best friend’s 

wife, do?” 

“Not at all. Her husband’s against our cause.” 

“Well, then, tell me what I am to do. Would you 
act as chaperone?” 

A pleasant look stole into the woman’s face and dis- 
placed the severe, judicial aspect with which she had 
regarded me. She said : “It would be a great sacrifice 
on my part. Let me see. Have I any other engage- 
ments ? Yes, several ; but I must set them all aside for 
duty’s sake. I will go, only do not keep me too late.” 

The girls and I had a delightful stroll to the park 
and back to town. They were very engaging in their 
manners and very sweet and intelligent, and could talk 
of little else than the war that was then raging be- 


The Mystic Spring, 


278 

tween the North and the South; and no wonder, for 
Miss Reynolds had three brothers in the Southern 
army, and Miss Eccles’s father’s plantation had been 
destroyed and all the slaves freed by the Union army. 

The company at the theatre was very inferior and 
there was not a redeeming feature in the play. When 
the curtain fell at eleven o’clock we walked toward 
the hotel. Our way led past two restaurants. Mrs. 
Pusey seized my arm with a firm clutch as if she 
imagined I was about to bolt; but she needn’t have 
feared. I had no such intention, and like a brave little 
soldier I marched my contingent of ladies right into 
the first restaurant, and before they were well aware of 
my intention had ordered the best supper that could 
be had. I was afraid that Mrs. Pusey would object, 
but she didn’t, and I am glad to say that she and all 
of us made a very hearty meal. I have reason to re- 
member that one of the dishes was deviled sausages. 

At the hotel I said good night to the ladies and 
went to the newspaper office. Having performed cer- 
tain duties there I returned to the hotel and sought my 
couch. I call to mind that a few days before I had 
bought Macaulay’s History of England, and as I 
didn’t feel disposed to slumber I read several chapters 
of that most engaging work. Finally I fell into the 
arms of the drowsy god. I might have been asleep 
an hour, perhaps less, when I was awakened by a fierce 
knocking at the door of my chamber. 

“Who’s there?” I cried. 

“Get up; the hotel’s all on fire,” was the alarming 
reply. 

I leaped out of bed. Through the transom I could 
see reflected a red gleam and there was much smoke 
in the room. I seized my clothes and rushed into the 
passage. It was filled with smoke, through which 
ever and anon a burst of flame forced its way, il- 
lumined the corridor for a moment, and then died. I 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 27gr' 

tried to find the stairs. I groped along the side of the 
passage, feeling the walls as I proceeded. The walls 
were already hot. The air was suffocating, and I 
could scarcely breathe. I cried “Fire! Fire!” with 
difficulty. Presently I came to a door and pushed. It 
yielded and I fell into a room. I leaped to my feet 
and pressed toward a window. As I did so I saw a 
white figure lying on the floor. I stooped and felt with 
my hands in the semi-darkness and then — oh! horror! 
— I touched a human face. 

“My God !” I cried in agony, “Is this you, Elsie ?” 

I had not dared to call Miss Reynolds by her Chris- 
tian name before, and how I knew in the imperfect 
light that it was she who lay at my feet I was never 
able to say. 

A voice in agonizing, stifling accents responded: 
“Yes. Oh, save me, save me!” 

Evidently the girl had risen to fly, and, overpow- 
ered by the smoke, had fallen where I found her. I 
raised her in my arms. She was by no means a light- 
weight, but I was young and strong, and the excite- 
ment added to my strength. A fitful flash of light 
illumined the room for a moment and I saw that she 
was clad in her nightrobes. Her face was pale as 
death and her long hair streamed over my chest. I 
staggered towards the door. The light failed me 
again, but I reached the door at last. The smoke was 
denser than before, but as it lifted occasionally I could 
see weird figures clad in white tottering along the cor- 
ridor, apparently searching for something. All tried 
to articulate the one word, “Fire !” I passed into the 
corridor with my load and waited for another flash to 
illumine the hall before resuming my search for the 
stairs. At this moment a large figure loomed out of 
the gloom. It spoke to me. The voice was that of a 
woman, but it was deep and sepulchral. 


28o 


The Mystic Spring, 


“Drop her!” it said; “she’s dead. Carry me out.” 
Then I saw that the newcomer was Mrs. Pusey. 

The flames now illumined the whole passage, and I 
could see distinctly at times. I placed my hand on 
the girl’s heart, and no beat responded. Her eyes were 
fixed and glassy. I kissed her — yes. I kissed those 
lovely lips. They were cold and lifeless. She was in- 
deed dead! With a cry of grief and despair, I cast 
the poor girl’s body to the floor, upon which it fell 
with a crash, and seized the other woman. She was 
of huge weight, too big and heavy for me to lift. I 
did my best. I tried till my sinews cracked with the 
exertion, but she was like a mountain of lead. I could 
not budge her. 

“I can’t lift you,” I told her at last; “you’re too old 
and fat.” 

“How dare you insult me!” she screamed. “If 
Mr. Pusey were here you would not call me old and 
fat. Take that! — and that! — and that!” She struck 
me three times across the face with the back of her 
jewelled hand. I felt the stones as they cut deeply 
into my flesh and then the hot blood coursed down my 
face from the wounds she had made. 

^ “Ha ! ha !” she laughed insanely. “You think you’re 
good-looking. You pride yourself on your manly 
beauty. Old and fat, am I? Well, I’ve marked you 
for life. I’ve branded you, set my seal on you, and 
forever after you’ll be referred to as the ‘Scar-faced 
Man.’ ” 

“Wretched woman,” I cried with difficulty, “don’t 
think you can treat me as you do your little Pusey. 
Give me that hand !” I seized her hand in spite of her 
resistance, buried my teeth in it until they met and 
shook it as a dog would have shaken a bone, for I was 
beside myself with rage. “I’ll eat you !” I cried. “I’ll 
begin at your hand, damn you !” 

The woman was so frightened she fainted dead 



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'AND Other Tales of Western Life ' 281: 


away. I dropped her and prepared to save myself by 
flight. I passed along the hall, as I went shouting 
“Fire! help! murder!” as loudly as the stifling smoke 
would permit. Presently I heard hoarse voices as if 
in response to my cries. Then there was borne to my 
ears the noise of many feet hurrying along the cor- 
ridor. The footsteps stopped suddenly. “It’s in 
here,” I heard a man say. Then there came a crash as 
if something had given way — a rending of wood and 
iron. Next a bright light flashed in my eyes. I 
opened them wide, and wider still, for what I saw 
overwhelmed me with surprise. I was lying on my 
bed, and in the room were the night-watchman, the 
hotel proprietors and several male guests. Some bore 
lighted candles and other coal oil lamps. Two or three 
had sticks and others carried revolvers, while the 
porter had a pail of water. Near the door I saw the 
two young ladies and Mrs. Pusey in night attire, very 
pale and trembling, tiptoeing to look over the heads 
of the gentlemen, with alarm on their faces. 

“Where am I?” I asked. 

“You’re in the Hotel St. Nicholas,” a voice replied. 

“Who saved me?” I asked. 

“Saved you?” said the watchman. “You ought to 
be hashamed of yerself for makin’ all this yere bob- 
bery about nothin’, young feller. You don’t want no 
savin’. You want a poundin’ ; that’s what you want.” 

“Has not the hotel been on fire? and is not Elsie 

dead and Mrs. Pusey, is she ?” I felt my face. 

There were no wounds there. “What does it all 
mean?” I asked. 

“It means,” said the watchman, “that there hain’t 
been no fire, and that you’ll have to treat the ’ole ’ouse 
for ’aving ’ad the nightmare.” 

The intruders tumed away with expressions of dis- 
gust, and Dr. Powell, who had an office in the hotel 
and \vho had been hastily summoned, came forward 


282 


The Mystic Spring, 


and felt my pulse. Next he raised one of my lids and 
looked long and anxiously into my eyes. 

“Open your mouth,” he said. “Wide, wider. Put 
out your tongue. Further! There, that’ll do. What 
did you have for supper?” 

“Deviled sausages,” I replied. 

“Humph!” said the Doctor. “Good-night,” and 
he left me to my reflections. 


JEM MCLAUGHLIN’S REGENERATION. 

“And darest thou then 
To beard the lion in his den. 

The Douglas in his hall?” 

SCOttm 

With the permission of the reader I will give an- 
other turn to the kaleidoscope and ask him to allow 
his mental vision to again accompany me along the 
course of Fraser River to the town of Yale. 

There was much that transpired at Yale and, in- 
deed, throughout the colony, that created a deep im- 
pression upon my young and ardent mind. Alany 
things happened that cannot be written, that were of 
too horrifying a nature to be told now ; but there is a 
great wealth of reminiscent lore than can be and ought 
to be unearthed for the information, if not the instruc- 
tion, of the present generation of men and women. 
This wealth of incident remains to be developed, and 
no one who wishes to be regarded as a faithful his- 
torian can afford to disregard it. 

Nearly every early resident of Yale, Vancouver 
and Victoria will readily recall the personality of Cap- 
tain William Power, who, having amassed a fortune 
during the land boom at Vancouver, died a few years 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 283 

later in the Eastern States, or England, I am not sure 
which. The Captain, who was an Irishman, was a 
splendid specimen of manhood and an accomplished 
athlete. I first met him early one sunny morning in 
the month of August, 1858, on the saloon deck of 
Captain Thomas Wright’s stern-wheel steamer Enter- 
prise, as she ploughed slowly against the current on 
her way to Hope. I had risen early and was reading 
a book when I saw approaching me a tall, fair young 
man. He held in one hand what seemed to be a China 
mug. As he drew near he said: “I’ve been all over 
this precious craft looking for the steward. Do you 
know where he is to be found ?” 

I replied in the negative, adding that I was, like 
himself, a stranger on board. 

“I want some hot water,” he said. “I’ve travelled 
all over Europe and the Holy Land and have been on 
the Nile, but this is the first time I have found it im- 
possible to get a cup of hot water to shave with. What 
do you use ?” 

I told him I used cold water. 

“If I’ve got to use cold water,” he replied, “I’ll not 
shave at all,” and he didn’t for several years. 

In the course of the day he introduced me to Mrs. 
Power, a bright young German lady, and we three 
became fast friends. Our friendship was maintained 
for many years, for they were an estimable couple. 

We pitched our tents at Yale and Mr. and Mrs. 
Power opened an hotel on the flat. It was speedily 
regarded as the best in town, and the couple soon had 
a full house. There was but one butcher shop in the 
town at that time. It was owned by a man named 
Carlyle. One Jem McLaughlin officiated at the block. 
He was a most desperate blackguard, both in appear- 
ance and action. He was a huge, bloated specimen of 
humanity and was generally filled to the throat with 
drink. When in that condition he was most abusive 


The Mystic Spring, 


284 

to his customers and took a delight in placing before 
them portions of meat that they did not desire or 
order, generally with the remark, “Take it or leave 
it,” showing that he was aware that he possessed a 
monopoly of the business. I had two or three tilts 
with the fellow, and every time was worsted because 
he held the key to my stomach. He insulted and bul- 
lied everyone, including Power, whose restaurant was 
at the mercy of the bloated butcher. _ He could cut off 
the supply of meat at any moment and put Power out 
of business. The language he used was fearful. He 
browbeat women as well as men. He hated children 
and would often turn them crying away without the 
food they had been sent by their parents to buy. A 
poor dog that strayed into the shop afforded him the 
greatest joy and satisfaction, for if he could not reach 
him with his foot he would hurl a cleaver at him, once 
or twice with deadly effect. A Scotchman named 
McDermott was the owner of a beautiful little terrier, 
his constant companion in all his prospecting tours. 
The little fellow ventured into McLaughlin’s shop one 
morning to pick up scraps when the wretch struck 
him with his great cutting knife across the back, in- 
flicting a wound that maimed the dog for life. The 
owner of the animal was furious. He seized his re- 
volver and started for the shop to shoot the butcher. 
Friends intervened and induced him to give up his 
weapon, but he went to the shop and, addressing Mc- 
Laughlin, said: 

“If I ever catch you on the other side of the line 
I’ll kill you — kill you !” 

“Go on out of this,” shouted the butcher, “or I’ll 
serve you as I did the dog.” 

“Very well,” said McDermott, “I’ll go ; but remem- 
ber, you will be my meat if I ever catch you on the 
American side.” 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 285 

McLaughlin fired a volley of bad words in defiance 
and the Scotchman went away. 

How we submitted patiently to the tyrannous con- 
duct of the ruffian, even at the risk of losing our meat 
supply, I cannot imagine now; but we did, and most 
humbly. He led us captives to the block and decapi- 
tated us morally, if not physically. For a long time 
he ruled supreme. Like Alexander Selkirk he was 
monarch of all he surveyed and keenly enjoyed his 
regal position. But one day he struck a snag, or, 
rather, a snag struck him. “The worm turned,” and 
although worms are not generally supposed to have 
teeth, this particular worm had a good sharp set and 
bit the oppressor till he howled. 

Down on the bar there lived a little English woman 
named Burroughs. She had two dear little children, a 
boy and girl, who were noted for their neat appear- 
ance on all occasions. The husband and father had 
gone up the canyons in quest of gold, leaving his wife 
and children in a small tent. A scanty supply of gro- 
ceries and money which he left behind for their sus- 
tenance was exhausted and the family were reduced 
to great straits. The neighbors on the waterfront did 
all they could to help the woman, but they were gen- 
erally poor, too. It was understood that Mrs. Bur- 
roughs was too proud to appeal for help. Winter was 
approaching and the discomfort of occupying a tent 
in cold weather will be understood by those who have 
passed through that experience. The little woman had 
been a frequent customer at the butcher shop and had 
paid for what she got so long as her purse held out. 
Lately she had fallen in arrears. One morning, when 
she asked to have an order filled, McLaughlin was in 
one of his worst moods. He had been revelling over 
night and had lost heavily at the faro table. So when 
Mrs. Burroughs lined up with others in front of the 


286 The Mystic Spring, 

block His Majesty addressed her in language some- 
thing like this : 

“What do you want?” 

“I should like to get a little more meat on credit for 
a few days. Mr. Burroughs will be here soon and he 
will pay you,” she timidly said. 

The wretch leaned on his cutting-knife and re- 
garded the woman with a diabolical leer as he said: 
“Is there a Mr, Burroughs? Was there ever a Mr. 
Burroughs? I doubt it. You’ll get no more meat 
here without the cash. I’ve too many of your sort on 
the books.” 

The hot blood mounted to the woman’s face and 
painted it crimson. She fixed her eyes in a terrified 
stare on McLaughlin and her lips moved as if in re- 
monstrance ; but no words came from them. She leant 
forward on the block and then sank to the floor. She 
had fainted dead away. Strong hands raised the thin, 
wasted figure (for it turned out that for some weeks 
she had systematically lived on the shortest of short 
allowance so that her children might have enough to 
sustain them), and a low murmur of indignation ran 
through the line of McLaughlin’s subjects who 
awaited their turn to be served. 

“Come on, now,” roared McLaughlin, “and give 
your orders quick. I can’t stand here all day. What 
do you want?” he asked, addressing the next customer, 
who by a strange fatality happened to be William 
Power. 

An eye-witness told me afterwards that Power 
turned as white as a corpse when the wretch insulted 
Mrs. Burroughs, but he said nothing. 

In response to the ruffian’s question, he gave his 
order. 

“You can’t get what you want; you’ll have to take 
what I’ll give you. Do you hear that? Here’s a 
piece of meat that’s good enough for the Queen.” 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 287 

*Tt’s not good enough for my table, anyhow, and 
ril not take it,” said Power. 

“Then go without. Who’s the next?” shouted the 
butcher. “Stand aside, will you, and give place to a 
gentleman ?” 

“McLaughlin,” said Power in slow, measured 
words, “every time that I come to your shop I am in- 
sulted. This thing has got to stop. I don’t care so 
much for myself and I could have stood it, but 1 do 
care for that poor little woman” (pointing to Mrs. 
Burroughs, who, supported by a couple of miners, was 
walking slowly away, having partly recovered). 

With a roar as of a wild beast McLaughlin threw 
down his knife and, divesting himself of his apron, 
rushed from behind the block and made a pass at 
Power. The latter stepped quickly aside and as Mc- 
Laughlin lurched heavily forward with the force of his 
own ineffective blow Power floored him with a pow- 
erful stroke delivered full on the ruffian’s face. Mc- 
Laughlin scrambled to his feet, but before he could 
put himself in position Power was upon him, raining 
blow after blow with smashing effect upon his antag- 
onist’s face and body until the latter sank insensible 
to the floor and stayed there, the bad blood and bad 
whiskey flowing from numerous wounds. Power 
then walked behind the block, selected a piece of meat, 
weighed it, calculated its value at 60 cents a pound, 
and placing the sum on the table walked leisurely 
away. 

“I think the man’s dead. Power,” called out a by- 
stander. 

“Well,” said Power, “if he is dead you know where 
to find me,” and he walked to the hotel as cool and 
calm as if nothing unusual had occurred. 

But Jem did not die. He did not belong to that 
class of whom it is said they die young because the 
gods love them. In the course of an hour or two he 


288 


The Mystic Spring, 


awoke from his stupor, and although weak and groggy 
on his pins, as he himself expressed it, and bruised 
and battered about the face, and with both eyes nearly 
closed, he resumed his duties. Strange as it may ap- 
pear, he emerged from the ordeal a changed man. 
From the hour that Power administered the drubbing 
a great reformation set in. Every trace of ruffianism 
had oozed out through his wounds, and in place of 
the bully whom everyone feared and hated, there stood 
a polite and decent man whose manners were almost 
obsequious and who never again was known to brow- 
beat or insult a customer. Women, children and dogs 
were the especial objects of his kind attentions. When 
he weighed a piece of meat he did not follow his for- 
mer practice of weighing his heavy hand with it, but 
gave good measure, heaped up and running over. To 
Mrs. Burroughs he was more than kind, sending her 
the choicest bits and forgetting to charge them on the 
books. As for McDermott, he sent for him and told 
him that his dog would be fed daily if he would only 
let him come to the shop. People who used to address 
him as “Mister” McLaughlin, got to addressing him 
as McLaughlin, and finally they lapsed into the greater 
familiarity of “Mac” and “Jem.” He received all 
these attentions with smiles of approval and happiness; 
but the strangest part of the affair was that he never 
by any chance referred to the pounding he had re- 
ceived at the hands of Power. Asked how he received 
the injuries on the face he would attribute them to 
running against a side of beef in the dark. His mem- 
ory of that event ever seemed a blank. All that he 
knew was that he had been hurt, he believed, by acci- 
dent, and that was all there was to be said. But the 
reformation was most marked, and so long as I knew 
him afterward he continued a steady and exemplary 
member of the community. He neither drank, gam- 
bled nor swore. “Boys,” he remarked to one of his 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 289 


old companions, ‘T’ve drunk my last drink and I’m 
going to save my money from this time on forever- 
more till Kingdom come — so don’t tempt me, for I 
won’t go.” He was suspected of harboring matri- 
monial designs toward a woman who kept a restau- 
rant on the flat, but as she had the inconvenient en- 
cumbrance of a husband still living, and told him so, 
the courtship came to naught. When Rev. Ebenezer 
Robson, the first Methodist missionary, paddled and 
poled his way in a canoe to Yale in 1859, McLaughlin 
gave him the glad hand, and attended his first sermon 
on a Sunday morning and joined in singing the hymns, 
“For you know,” he explained, “I used to belong to a 
choir when I was a young fellow back in Maine.” 

There were sad days in store for the little English 
woman in the tent down on the bar. She was destined 
to have a great heart trouble, and looking back as I 
write through all the years that have lapsed since then 
I conjure up her frail figure as I last saw it, with her 
dear little ones close pressed to her breast and calling 
on God to protect and buoy them up in their great sor- 
row. That picture is one I never can forget. But I 
must not anticipate. 

One stormy afternoon a miner came into town. He 
had travelled rapidly over the trail from a bar where 
his company were located in quest of a surgeon. The 
story he told was that a stranger on his way down 
the river trail had shot himself in the thigh while 
climbing over a tree that had fallen across the path. 
The trigger caught on a twig and the charge exploded. 
A doctor was procured and accompanied the man back 
to Sailor Bar. When they reached there the stranger 
was dead — having bled to death. The doctor, after 
pronouncing the man to be dead, asked if he had any 
effects. Some letters and a bag of gold dust weighing 
over $700 were handed to him. Every miner’s cabin 
was provided with a pair of gold scales for weighing 


290 


The Mystic Spring, 


dust, and from the purse the doctor weighed out $150 
as his fee and handed the bag back to the miners. The 
latter brought the letters and the balance remaining 
in the bag to Yale, and handed them to the authorities. 
The letters were addressed to “Charles Burroughs, 
Lytton,” and bore the Yale postmark. Did anyone 
know Charles Burroughs? No one knew such a per- 
son; but Jem McLaughlin, who joined a group of men 
who had gathered to discuss the tragedy, suggested 
that Mrs. Burroughs might know the dead stranger. 

“Gad!” exclaimed one of the group, “I’ll bet any 
money that he’s her husband.” 

“Go and ask her,” suggested another. 

“Not if I know myself,” cried a third man. “I don’t 
carry no bad news to no one, and could no more ask 
that poor thing if it’s her husband than I could fly.” 

And so it came about that in all that crowd of rough 
and uncouth men, who were accustomed to brave 
danger in every form, not one could be found with 
sufficient nerve to ask the little woman, “Was he your 
husband ?” 

The task was assigned to Mrs. Power and Mrs. 
Felker. The latter was the wife of Henry Felker of 
the Blue Tent. She died only the other day at an ad- 
vanced age. The ladies went to the tent. Mrs. Bur- 
roughs was sewing. We may be sure that they per- 
formed the duty gently and after the manner of their 
noble and self-denying sex. The surmise proved cor- 
rect. The dead man was the woman’s husband, who 
was on his way back to make her happy with his purse 
of gold when the accident occurred that took away his 
precious life. A man who was on the trail with him 
when the gun went off told me that he was whistling 
and singing alternately as he walked along in antici- 
pation of a reunion before nightfall with his loved 
ones, of whom he often spoke. “He was singing,” 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 291 

said the man, “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and using 
his loaded gun as a staff, when the death-blow came. 

Little more remains to be told, Mrs. Burroughs 
had the body brought to Yale and interred in the little 
cemetery. Dear old John Kurtz read the funeral ser- 
vice, and Hugh Nelson, William Power, Jem Mc- 
Laughlin and I led the pallbearers. At the grave the 
widow knelt, and with her children pressed to her 
bosom engaged in silent prayer, while we all drew 
back and gazed reverently at the affecting scene. 
When she rose Jem McLaughlin respectfully and 
humbly came forward and took a child in each hand, 
while Power offered his arm to the afflicted woman. 
We then formed a little procession and marched down 
the hill to Mrs. Felker’s, where comfortable quarters 
had been prepared for the family. The following 
week they went away to their friends in California, 
and Yale knew them no more. 

Was the regeneration of Jem McLaughlin perma- 
nent? I do not know. I hope that it was, for at the 
bottom he was a good sort and was capable of noble 
actions. Let us trust that he never relapsed into evil 
courses, and that, as he must have long since gone the 
way of all flesh, he continued to grow in grace until 
when the end came he won a starry crown. 


THE MAYORAL DINNER. 

“Hey diddle diddle. 

The cat and the fiddle. 

The cow jumped over the moon; 

The little dog laughed to see such sport 
And the dish ran away with the spoon.” 

— Nursery Rhyme. 


292 The Mystic Spring, 

One morning in the month of February, i860, there 
appeared in a Victoria paper’s advertising columns a 
notice which ran thus: 

“At the instance of Mr. John Colber a writ was 
yesterday issued from the Supreme Court against Dr. 
Balfour of this city. The writ alleges slander on the 
part of the defendant and the damages asked are 
heavy.” 

The appearance of the advertisement set all tongues 
wagging. Every man and woman and, for the matter 
of that, every child who was old enough to under- 
stand what a suit at law meant, was anxious to know 
just what it was all about. Colber was a sturdy 
Scotch Writer to the Signet (which, I believe, means 
the same as barrister here) of about forty years and 
had a wife some ten years his senior. When asked 
for an explanation he shook his head, and said, “Go 
and ask the doctor — he knows.” The doctor, when 
appealed to, professed ignorance of having given 
cause for the action and appeared to be as much puz- 
zled as the community in general. In the burning 
desire for information Mrs. Colber was asked. She 
was a little Englishwoman, of quick, nervous action, 
black snappy eyes, and a tongue — as old Willis Bond, 
the famed colored orator, who once came under its 
lash, expressed it — “dat cuts bof ways like a knife.” 
Mr. and Mrs. Colber had arrived at Victoria by ship 
from Australia in 1859. They had some money and 
built themselves a small shack which answered the 
double purpose of a law office and residence. Mrs. 
Colber immediately began to assert herself as a social 
leader. She gave little teas (then quite an innova- 
tion — and tea was not the only beverage served) which 
the “best” people attended, and at one of which it 
was decided to form a sort of social guild for the 
purpose of ascertaining who was who — dividing the 
sheep from the goats, weeding the society list, so to 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 293 

speak — and admitting only those whose records were 
unimpeachable to the circle. It was felt that in the 
hurry and bustle of strangers arriving and settling 
here some very undesirable persons had succeeded in 
imposing themselves upon society and were carrying 
their heads high, when, were the truth known, they 
should hang them very low. About this time a ball 
was arranged to be held at the Hudson’s Bay Com- 
pany’s warehouse. It was used for the storage of 
salmon in barrels pending the annual sailing of a 
Company’s packet for London. When the ball was 
arranged the packet Princess Royal had taken all the 
salmon on board and the warehouse was empty. After 
liberal applications of soft soap and water to destroy 
the ancient and fishlike smell that hung about the 
place, and the draping about the walls of sails and 
flags from the ships, the room was made presentable 
and a goodly number of invitations were sent out. 
There were very few ladies then resident in Victoria. 
Families were scarce, and a child of tender years was 
regarded as a rara avis. Now it happened that to the 
social club of which our friend, Mrs. John Colber, was 
the self-elected leader was assigned the task of select- 
ing the ladies who should be invited to attend the ball. 
The guild met and appointed a secretary to whom was 
given the duty of writing the invitations, and an ex- 
ecutive committee to check the list was also appointed. 
In due course the cards were issued, and to the sur- 
prise of many the names of Mr. and Mrs. John Col- 
ber were not among the elect. A day passed, two, 
three days, and still no cards for the Colbers. Then 
arm-in-arm (which was the way married and en- 
gaged persons walked at that time) the Colbers pro- 
ceeded to investigate. They were very wroth and 
the sharp tongue of the lady cut “bof ways.” The 
unfortunate secretary was the first object of the 
slighted woman’s wrath, and after much persuasion 


294 


.The Mystic Spring, 


and many threats the secretary explained that she had 
been instructed by the committee not to issue an invi- 
tation to Mr. and Mrs. Colber. To the president of 
the committee the pair next proceeded, and in that 
lady they encountered a forewoman who was worthy 
of the visiting lady’s tongue. The word-battle must 
have been interesting. It was said that Mrs. Colber, 
like the fishwoman whom Dan O’Connell vanquished 
in the Dublin market, got the worst of the combat, for 
she left the place supported by her husband, and in 
an hysterical condition. 

The outcome of the visit was the issue of a writ for 
heavy damages, as I have explained, against the hus- 
band of the president of the Executive of the Social 
Guild. What provoked the action I never knew posi^ 
tively ; but it was reported that a gentleman from Aus- 
tralia had known Mrs. Colber while there and said 
that she had a Past. Now to say that a person has hadf- 
a Past is not actionable in itself. We have all had 
Pasts. Some of us would gladly erase the record from 
the slate and think of it no more if we could. But 
to say that Mrs. Colber had a Past and to strike her 
name from the list of eligibles because of that Past 
was decidedly actionable. 

The ball came off and proved very successful. There 
were ladies present, but the gentlemen outnumbered 
them in the ratio of six to one. The moment a lady 
entered the dancing apartment she was pounced upon, 
so to speak, and her “card,” which was written upon 
a half-sheet of note paper, was filled almost at once. 
A young American who accompanied me to the ball 
got one dance the whole evening and I fared little bet- 
ter, the naval officers bearing off all the honors. The 
costumes were rich and varied. Of course, the enor- 
mous crinoline was much in evidence, and in sympa- 
thy with hoops the gentleman wore baggy trousers, 
•wide from the hips to the ankles, where they suddenly 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 295 

narrowed and were drawn closely in. There was about 
as much fit in trousers then as there is in pyjamas now. 
Looking back I can recall nothing so grotesque as the 
male and female costumes of that day — and yet we 
thought them graceful and fetching and altogether 
lovely ! “What fools we mortals be” to allow our- 
selves to be dragged to such ridiculous ends by the 
dictates of Dame Fashion. 

The supper was all that could be desired. I remem- 
ber that Governor Douglas, Captain James Reid and 
other heads of families, with their lovely young daugh- 
ters, were present, and that the Governor and other 
gentlemen made very pretty speeches, in which they 
referred to the company in a pleasant manner. Ad- 
miral Baynes, then in command of the station, and his 
staff were also present, and he, too, made some appro- 
priate remarks — the San Juan “war” having just been 
settled everybody was feeling happy. The affair 
passed off pleasantly and the cocks were crowing their 
welcome to the rising sun before the company dis- 
persed. 

“Do you intend to push the case against the doc- 
tor ?” I asked Colber one morning. 

“Yes,” he exclaimed with emphasis, “to the bitter 
end — to the death, if necessary.” 

“Won’t you accept an apology?” I continued. 

“No,” chimed in his wife, and her eyes snapped 
with excitement. “Never — never! If he lay dying 
and asked me to forgive him I never would.” 

Within two weeks from the date of that conversa- 
tion Dr. Balfour was dead. His death was encom- 
passed in this way. It seemed that he worried much 
over the action and saw no way out of the suit except 
by flight. A little Chilian brig called the Florencia 
was loading for Chili. On this brig Dr. Balfour, to 
escape the action, secretly took passage. Off Cape 
Flattery the brig encountered a fearful gale and went 


The Mystic Spring, 


296 

over on her beam ends. Amongst those who were 
swept off and never seen more was poor Dr. Balfour. 
He was truly followed to the bitter end — to death. 

The passing of Dr. Balfour gave quite a shock to 
the little colony, for the deceased w^as well liked, and 
the social postion of the Colbers v as rather lowered 
than heightened by it. Shortly afier the sad event 
the couple became involved in a bitter warfare with 
W. B. Smith, owner of a brick building on Govern- 
ment Street. The Smith lot extended to the line of 
Colber’s lot on Langley Street. The latter always 
insisted that the Smith fence encroached three or four 
inches on their lot, and the wordy wars were many 
and numerous. The active spirit in the Smith estab- 
lishment was a young clerk named Hicks. After the 
exchange of numerous fiery epistles Mrs. Colber cow- 
hided Hicks on Yates Street and was fined £5. Next 
Hicks and Colber met and Hicks pulled his antagon- 
ist’s nose, for which luxury he paid £5. Then Colber 
printed a card in which he referred to Hicks as a man 
who had been publicly cowhided. Hicks retorted with 
a letter in which he referred to Colber’s nose as having 
been tweaked on the street. In the absence of a theatre 
the controversy created the keenest amusement to the 
residents, and while one party would pat Hicks on the 
back and advise him to keep it up, another section 
would tell the Colbers to give it to Hicks. On one 
occasion Hicks found a dead cat in Smith’s back-yard. 
Naturally supposing that his enemy had thrown it 
there he hurled it over the fence into Colber’s yard. 
Now it chanced that the little woman with the fiery 
temper and snappy eyes was engaged with a tape-line 
and an Indian boy in measuring the ground to find how 
many inches of land had been taken possession of by 
Smith, and the defunct feline landed full on her head, 
giving her a severe shock, and causing her to imagine 
that a wild animal had leaped upon and was about to 

i 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 297 

devour her. Loud screams brought the husband to 
the spot, and after he had soothed his wife he seized 
the dead cat by the tail and darted round the corner 
to Smith’s store. Hicks was standing in the doorway. 
He was a bit of a dandy and very vain. As Colber, 
carrying the cat, approached Hicks tried to escape; 
but he was overtaken, and Colber nearly wore the ani- 
mal out on the head and shouldefs of his enemy. The 
town went wild with delight. They had watched the 
clash between the two forces for some weeks. The 
comic side of a controversy always appeals most 
strongly to the popular mind, so the funny incident of 
the cat and the use that was made of it took the public 
by storm. Nothing else was talked of for many days 
and the “Tsick him, boy!” tactics were continued by 
the friends of both. 

The boom consequent on the discovery of gold in 
Cariboo struck Victoria in 1862. The buildings were 
of insufficient capacity to accommodate one-tenth of 
the people who came to Victoria to make this the start- 
ing-point for their long journey to the mines. Hun- 
dreds of the newcomers pitched tents on vacant lots, 
and the streets were crowded with people from every 
part of the world. Goods were in such demand that 
the steamers from San Francisco could not carry one- 
half the freight that offered. Real estate in Victoria 
rose rapidly in value, and nearly everyone became a 
speculator. The Colbers bought two lots on Pandora 
Avenue and sold one of the two immediately after- 
ward for a sum equal to that which they had paid for 
both. 

In the summer of 1862 the city of Victoria was in- 
corporated, and Mr. Thomas Harris, a leading busi- 
ness man and a generous, public-spirited citizen, was 
unanimously chosen mayor. Amongst the town coun- 
cillors elected was John Colber, who, in spite of his 
unpopularity, received the highest number of votes 


298 The Mystic Spring, 

and consequently became senior councillor. The 
Prince of Wales (now King Edward) attained his 
majority on the 9th of November, 1862, and a public 
holiday was proclaimed here. A procession was formed 
and headed by a band marched through the streets. 
In the afternoon there were races at Beacon Hill Park, 
and in the evening an illumination of the public build- 
ings, the mayor’s and several other private residences. 
For the evening a banquet had been arranged at the 
Lyceum. About two hundred guests appeared at the 
table, over which Mayor Harris presided. On his 
right was Sir James Douglas (the Governor), Capt. 
Richards (afterwards Admiral), of H. M. S. Hecate; 
Capt. Pike, of H. M. S. Devastation; and Chief Justice 
Cameron. On his left the Lord Bishop of Columbia, 
Rt. Rev. Bishop Demers, M. Mene, French Consul; 
Hon. Henry Rhodes, Hawaiian Consul; Colonial Sec- 
retary Young, and Attorney-General Cary. In the 
gallery were a number of ladies who had assembled 
to “see the lions feed,” and who were served with wine 
and sweets. Full justice was done to the excellent 
menu provided, and the usual patriotic toasts were 
drunk with enthusiasm. Then followed a number of 
toasts of a local character and all went pleasantly. 
There was not the slightest reason to suspect that a 
storm-cloud lurked in the air — that the peaceful scene, 
almost pastoral in its serenity and calmness, was soon 
to be changed into a roaring, seething maelstrom of 
disorder and confusion where men would lose their 
heads and shout and strike out wildly, and fair wom- 
en’s screams would add to the din. Yet so it was. 
The red rag of the occasion was a toast to “The Mayor 
and City Council.” The Attorney-General having pro- 
posed it, the Mayor responded for his office in a pretty 
little speech which was applauded. When Councillor 
McKay rose to respond for the City Council he found 
himself forestalled. There was “another Richmond” 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 299 

already on his feet who had begun a reply. The 
usurper was John Colber. 

“Mr. Mayor,” he began, “as senior councillor the 
duty devolves on me to reply to the toast of the City 
Council.” 

“You are out of order. Councillor Colber,” said the 
Mayor. 

“Oh, no, I’m just in order as senior councillor.” 

“But you are not down for this toast. Councillor 
McKay is, and I can only hear him.” 

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Mayor,” replied the 
senior councillor, while a sweet smile swept over his 
broad face, “The duty devolves on me to answer, and 
I’ll not shirk my duty. It is a source of great gratifica- 
tion ” 

Cries of “Order,” “Order,” “Sit down,” “Chair,” 
arose. The glasses danced and jingled in response 
to vociferous thumping on the table and the fireworks 
began. The noise was deafening, but high above the 
din could be heard the tempestuous voice of sturdy 
John Colber as he repeated over and over again the 
words, “Mr. Mayor, Mr. Mayor,” and rising higher 
still the shrill soprano of an excited female rent the 
disturbed air as it called out, “Stand your ground, 
John ! Don’t be put down, John ! Fight for your 
rights, John!” Guests who turned their heads in the 
direction whence the female voice came saw a little 
woman with a very pale face and snappy black eyes 
leaning half over the front of the gallery and swing- 
ing her arms frantically as she called to her husband 
at the top of her voice. The woman was Mrs. John 
Colber. 

On the floor of the hall the disturbance grew more 
and more pronounced. One man, a little fellow named 
Briggs, managed to burst through the throng and 
reach Colber. 


300 The Mystic Spring, 

“John Colber,” shouted he, “you’re a hass — a feck- 
less hass !” 

“A little louder, Mr. Briggs,” cried John, with a 
seductive smile. 

“I say you are a feckless hass, John Colber.” 

“Actionable, Mr. Briggs, actionable. You hear him, 
gentlemen? I’ll make a note of those words,” and he 
pulled down one of his ample cuffs to take them down 
in pencil. 

“Look out, Billy!” cried a voice from the crowd. 
“He’ll sue you and get them three lots of yours.” 

Billy turned as white as a ghost and shot out of 
sight. 

The cries of “Sit down” and “order” continued to 
resound through the room, but Colber refused to sit 
down or be sat upon. 

The Mayor at last lost patience, for the Governor 
and his staff, the lord bishop, the naval officers and the 
consuls had left the room. His Worship cried out, 
pointing to Colber, “Will no one remove that nui- 
sance ?” 

At this a rush was made for the senior councillor. 
A dozen hands were laid upon him and a mob of thirty 
men closed in upon the “ruisance” and threw him 
bodily out of the hall. As he struggled to release him- 
self the high soprano of his wife was again heard as 
she rained an orange, an apple, a cake and a plate of 
sticky jelly upon the guests below, and then dashed 
down the stairs and, throwing her arms about her hus- 
band, led him toward their home, calling down 
heaven’s maledictions on his assailants as she went. 

The Colbers decided to erect a brick dwelling on 
their remaining lot on Pandora Avenue. It was to be 
a double house and two stories in height. When the 
walls were nearly up a difficulty presented itself. The 
Jewish community resolved to build a synagogue next 
adjoining the Colber lot on the west. The synagogue 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 301 

was to be bigger and higher than the Colber mansion 
and would throw it into the shade. The Colbers could 
not submit to be overshadowed in that way, so they 
added another story to their structure, “from the roof 
of which,” said the lady, “I can always command a 
fine view.” During the progress of construction Mrs. 
Colber was frequently present, and one day as she 
was climbing up a ladder “to get a view” from the 
unfinished roof, a little unslacked lime fell from above 
and entered her eyes. The pain was excruciating. 
She walked home and means were employed to remove 
the stuff. But relief came too late. The lime had 
slacked in her eyes and the light had gone out from 
those snappy organs forever. From that day till the 
day of her death the unfortunate woman was totally 
blind! The building, which was erected at a greater 
elevation than had been originally intended, still 
stands. Other eyes have feasted on the view to be 
had from the roof, but the lady for whose pleasure the 
elevation was increased never saw again I 

The devotion of John Colber to his blind wife was 
marked and touching. Her temper, never of the sweet- 
est, grew worse under her great misfortune ; but Col- 
ber put up with everything and was accustomed to lead 
her with exemplary tenderness and patience through 
the streets for an airing or to and from church. 

The last time the couple came before the public was 
in the summer of 1867. As a barrister Colber had 
sued Dr. John Ash on behalf of John Nicholson, a 
well-known contractor, for work done at or near 
Sooke. Judgment was rendered for about $1,500. The 
money was paid into the barrister’s hands on Saturday, 
too late to be deposited in the bank, so Colber put it 
into a sort of apology for a safe, which was in reality 
only a wooden ^x enclosed in sheet iron of about one- 
fourth of an inch in thickness. On Sunday evening 
the pair went out for a stroll and were absent about 


302 


The Mystic Spring, 


an hour. On their return they found that the iron 
and wood box had been cut through with a cold-chisel 
and every dollar was gone. No trace of the thieves 
was ever discovered, and thus Mr. Nicholson after 
winning his case lost his money. 

A little later Mr. and Mrs. John Colber’s names 
appeared in the passenger list of an ocean-bound ves- 
sel, and I heard that she died in Australia and that he 
went back to Scotland. 


THE STRANGE STORY OF GEORGE MOORE, 
DRUGGIST. 

“O earth, so full of dreary noise! 

O men with wailing in your voice I 
O delved gold the wallers heap! 

O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall! 

God strikes a silence through you all, 

And ‘giveth His beloved sleep.’ ” 

— Eliaabeth Browning. 

The early servants of the Hudson’s Bay Company 
resided behind the palisades and within the fort, or 
clustered in one-story cabins of hewn logs, white- 
washed inside and out, and built without the slightest 
regard to architectural effect or sanitation. The men 
who came here in pursuit of gold in 1858 erected their 
places of business along the line of Yates and Wharf 
Streets, and disposed of their goods on a strictly cash 
basis. The thoroughfares, which were wagon tracks 
in summer, in winter became quagmires in which 
horses and drays often stuck and men sank to their 
knees. The navigation of what are now our chief 
business streets forty-five years ago required a man 
who was able to “take the sun,” as they say at sea, to 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 303 


cross them dry-shod and mud-free. Above Broad 
Street, as late as the winter of 1861-62, the roads were 
absolutely impassable. There were no street lights, 
sewers, water or cabs — none of the conveniences that 
now contribute to make life without the business centre 
enjoyable. Many of the heaviest merchants occupied 
rooms above or behind their warehouses and raised 
families of children blooming with health and vigor. 
On one occasion I went into a Wharf Street store to 
buy a flask of quicksilver, which was sold wholesale 
at $2.00 a pound. The merchant and I had a long con- 
versation as to prices. He made several attempts to 
cut the argument short by manifesting a desire to re- 
tire to the room in the rear, which served in the treble 
capacity of office, bedroom and kitchen. Each time I 
detained him by raising some new point and presently 
my nostrils were assailed with the odor of something 
burning. The merchant took the scent at the same 
moment and, cutting a sentence short, made a wild 
rush to the kitchen. In a moment he emerged holding 
a frying pan in his hands. 

“There!” he exclaimed, as he gave me a malignant 
look, “while I’ve wasted my time talking with you my 
sausages have been burned to a crisp !” He threw four 
blackened sausages into the street, following them to 
their muddy resting-place with a word that begins with 
a big “D,” as they say in “Pinafore.” 

One of the most picturesque characters in the down- 
town district at that time was George Moore, a drug- 
gist, who dispensed drugs and chemicals at A. J. 
Langley & Co.’s, at the corner of Boomerang Alley 
and Yates Street. Mr. Moore was an Englishman of 
rather retiring manners. He was amiable and good- 
natured to a fault, and was never known to turn his 
back upon a glass of good brandy or rum; in which 
genial habit he was not alone. To his intimates he 
was known as “Pern” Moore; to mere acquaintances 


304 


The Mystic Spring, 


as Moore; to the general public as Dr. Moore. As a 
druggist he had few equals, and as prescriptions were 
charged at the rate of from $2 to $5, it will be under- 
stood that the profits were large and that Moore earned 
the liberal salary that was paid him. Moore did not 
live at or near his place of business. Early in 1859 
he had married a Mrs. Stein, the widow of a German 
grocer, whose husband had left her a tidy little for- 
tune, out of which she built a brick dwelling on 
Gordon Street. After the marriage Mrs. Moore 
hyphenated her name and had her cards printed “Mrs. 
Stein-Moore.” Several of Moore’s friends ventured 
to address him as “Stein-Moore,” but the manner in 
which he received the innovation caused them to re- 
frain from repeating the liberty, and so they returned 
to the more familiar if less musical appellation of 
“Pern” Moore. 

“I want to be something more in the world than 
Mrs. Stein’s husband,” Moore was accustomed to say. 

“I want to be known and appreciated for myself alone. 

I don’t propose to have my personality buried in the 
Stein grave and Stein dug up and put in the front 
rank. Stein is dead; let him rest. Moore’s alive; let 
him live. If the widow of the defunct wants to carry 
the dead man’s name on her card, well and good. It 
pleases her and does me no harm. But, by the gods 
of war, I refuse to be addressed in her dead husband’s 
name, so don’t call me by that any more.” And they, 
not courting a fight, didn’t. 

Moore, as I have said, was a kind-hearted man and 
performed many acts of goodness which, no doubt, 
stands recorded to his credit in the Better Land. He 
was a most careful druggist, and no mistake was ever j 
traced to him. With all his amiability he could be very 
firm when occasion required, as the tale I am about to 
relate will show. 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 305 

One dark and dismal night the rain fell in great 
sheets and the wind roared over sea and land. It was 
December of 1861. The hour was 10.30; the store 
was deserted by customers, and Moore was on the 
point of closing for the night when the door swung 
back with a bang and a female figure was blown in. 
She was closely muffled to protect her from the fury 
of the gale, and the lower part of the face was hidden 
behind a red shawl. In spite of the shawl Moore 
could see that the woman was nice-looking, and that 
she had coal-black eyes that sparkled with what seemed 
to be an unnatural fire. Approaching the counter the 
woman hesitated for a moment and then, allowing her 
eves to fall, said in a faltering voice : 

“I want two bits’ worth of laudanum.” 

Moore regarded her face for a moment with a sus- 
picious air and asked : 

“What do you want it for?” 

“I want it for the toothache.” 

“It wouldn’t require so large a quantity as that. A 
few drops on cotton wool will do. Here, I’ll put a 
few drops in the tooth.” 

“No, no, no,” said the woman, shrinking away. “I 
must have two bits’ worth. All my teeth are aching. 
Give it me and let me go.” 

Moore considered a moment. He felt certain the 
woman before him meant to commit suicide. If he 
refused to sell her the poison someone else might. 

“Well,” he said, “you may have the poison if you 
will promise to be careful in its use.” 

“Yes, yes,” cried the woman, eagerly. “I promise.” 

Moore filled a small phial with a dark fluid, labelled 
it “Laudanum, Poison,” and handed it to the customer. 
She almost snatched it from his hand. She threw 
down the coin, and with a smothered “Thank you” 
left the store as rapidly as she had entered it. 

Moore gazed after her with a queer look in his eye. 


The Mystic Spring, 


306 

while a smile played about the corners of his mouth. 
Then he lighted a little candle and placing it within a 
tin lantern (coal oil was not then used in lanterns), 
banked the fire, closed and locked the safe (that was 
before combinations were invented), fastened the 
doors and sallied forth into the night. The feeble 
rays shed by the candle guided his footsteps along the 
muddy footpath (no boarded sidewalks then existed). 
He walked along Yates through the slop until he 
reached Government Street. The wind was holding 
high revel. Signboards creaked and buildings groaned 
and trembled before heavy blasts that tore fiercely 
through the little town as if anxious to sweep the 
place clean off the map. Moore’s hat blew off, but he 
did not stop to recover it. His course led past the 
corner of Bastion and Government Streets. The guns 
frowned down upon him as if they were preparing to 
go off on their own accord and contest with the ele- 
ments a right to a monopoly of the noise. The lonely 
wayfarer continued to pick his path slowly and was 
passing the palisades of the fort when the feeble rays 
cast by his lantern disclosed something that gave him 
a start and caused his kind heart to beat with alarm. 
In an instant he had recovered himself and, bending 
down, saw that the figure of a woman lay extended on 
the walk. A glance showed that the prostrate woman 
was the one who had asked for the laudanum a short 
time before. He placed his hand on her shoulder and 
shook her gently. The woman moaned and, drawing 
the red shawl over her face, turned her back to the 
light. 

“Come,” said Moore. “Get up. This is no place 
for a human being on such a night; and a woman, 
too,” he added. 

“Oh! go away and let me die,” the woman replied, 
in pitiful accents. 

“Let you die! No, indeed,” said the druggist 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 307 

“Why should you die? What have you done to make 
you wish to die?” 

“Oh! I’ve taken poison — laudanum,” she said. “In 
a few minutes I shall be dead.” 

“But you have not taken poison,” persisted Moore. 

“I have, indeed. I bought it at Langley’s — two bits’ 
worth. I swallowed it all and have laid down here to 
sleep. Oh! go away and let me die in peace,” she 
moaned. 

“Woman,” said Moore, “I am the druggist who 
filled your order. I did not gfive you laudanum. I 
gave you a small phial of weak paregoric, with a dash 
of ipecac to act as an emetic. If you wait till that 
kills you will live forever.” 

The woman sat up and in imploring tones begged 
Moore to assure her that he had spoken the truth. No 
reply was necessary, for at that moment the ipecac 
made its presence manifest in no uncertain way. When 
the woman had sufficiently recovered Moore assisted 
her to her feet. Her clothes were wringing wet and 
she trembled with cold and weakness. 

“Have you told me the truth?’ she again asked the 
druggist. 

“Yes,” replied Moore. “As God is my judge, I 
gave you nothing that would harm you. Now come 
with me to my home like a good girl and my wife will 
look after you.” 

He half led, half carried the forlorn creature, who 
was too weak to resist, to his door. A blazing fire 
filled the hearth; a cold grouse flanked with a bottle of 
Pyramid beer and another of brandy stood on the 
dining-room table, set there for Mr. Moore’s supper. 
In less time than it has taken to write it Moore led the 
woman to an easy chair before the fire and poured out 
a generous jorum of brandy, which he almost forced 
down her throat. Then he ran out of the room and 
aroused his wife. She soon came bustling in, clad in 


The Mystic Spring, 


308 

a wrapper. Mrs. Stein-Moore was a German and 
spoke broken English. She was eccentric, vain and 
silly on most subjects, but when it came to helping a 
woman in distress she was the best-hearted creature in 
the world. She almost dragged the stranger off to her 
room, where she gave her a hot bath, hung up her wet 
raiment to dry, and then put her to bed between 
blankets with a bottle filled with hot water at her feet. 
In the morning early the stranger awoke, arrayed her- 
self in her garments, and would have left the house by 
stealth after penning a short note of thanks to her host 
and hostess. But they were on the alert and barred her 
egress. They made her partake of breakfast, which 
she did while grateful tears chased each other down 
her face. Mr. and Mrs. Moore made no effort to gain 
her confidence and the woman left after telling Mrs. 
Moore that her name was Wilmer, that she was mar- 
ried and resided with her husband on or near the pres- 
ent line of lower Pandora Street. Some days later 
the Moores inquired and found that the Wilmer s had 
left Pandora Avenue and gone whither no one knew. 
They heard no more of the woman for a long time — 
nearly a year. 

One bright afternoon late in the Autumn of 1862 
Mrs. Moore was called into her drawing-room by a 
message brought by the servant that a lady wished to 
see her. Upon entering the room the visitor rose. She 
was tall and graceful, and was well dressed in clothes 
of fashionable make and fine texture. Mrs. Moore 
paused in the act of extending her hand, for the lady 
seemed an entire stranger. 

“You do not recognize me ?” asked the visitor. 

“No, I cannot remember to have seen you before.” 

“And yet,” returned the lady with a smile, “you have 
met me before and have entertained me.” 

Mrs. Moore studied the face carefully and then 


'AND Other Tales of Western Life 309 

shook her head. She did not recognize a line of the 
features. 

“You do not recall my face ?” the lady asked. 

“No, I cannot call it to mind.” 

“Well, then, I am Mrs. Wilmer, whom your hus- 
band found lying on the street and brought here, and 
to whom you were so good. I have come to tell you 
that fortune has smiled upon me. My husband has 
made much gold at Cariboo. He is interested in one 
of the richest claims on William Creek, and I have 
brought you this nugget as a gift to show how much 
we appreciate your great goodness to me when I 
needed your help.” She handed Mrs. Moore a large 
lump of pure gold. Mrs. Moore at first declined the 
gift; but the lady insisted, and she finally yielded. 

“Now,” said Mrs. Wilmer, “you are entitled to an 
explanation of my strange conduct a year ago. My 
husband and I are English born. He is one of the 
best men alive when he refrains from the use of liquor, 
but under that blasting influence he is a demon. On 
the night that I bought the laudanum he came home 
in a state of intoxication and struck me. I ran into the 
street and made my way to Mr. Moore’s place. I fully 
intended to kill myself. When my husband found 
that I was gone he searched at once, for he really loves 
me. He searched for me all through that bitter night 
and when he got back to the house at noon he found 
me there. He took me in his arms and knelt at my 
feet. He asked my forgiveness a thousand times. He 
made a solemn vow on his mother’s Bible to drink no 
more. He has kept his oath. I went with him to 
Cariboo. I cooked and baked and washed and kept 
boarders while he worked in the mine, of which he is 
part owner. Providence blessed our efforts. We 
came down a week ago with nearly $5,000, and there 
is plenty of gold awaiting our return in the spring. 
We have sent $3,000 to England and have given $100 


The Mystic Spring. 


310 

to the Royal Hospital. We have enough left to keep 
us through the winter. I am a very happy woman, 
Mrs. Moore, and whenever I ask God to forgive my 
great sin, from the consequences of which the wisdom 
and foresight of your husband saved me, I always ask 
Him to bless you and your husband.” 

Mrs. Moore was delighted to find that her visitor 
was the woman whom she had helped in an hour of 
deep distress, and the women embraced with expres- 
sions of happiness and pleasure. Mrs. Wilmer then 
blushingly said to Mrs. Moore : 

“We have been blessed in another way,” and she 
whispered something in her hostess’s ear. 

“No!” exclaimed Mrs. Moore, who was pleased, as 
ladies always are, to be made the repository of the 
most interesting secret that one woman can impart to 
another. “When ?” 

“In about a fortnight,” returned Mrs. Wilmer. “Are 
you a mother?” she asked. 

“No,” said Mrs. Moore, “I am not so fortunate.” 

As Mrs. Wilmer rose to go Mrs. Moore promised 
to call upon her soon. 

Then the ladies parted never to meet again on this 
earth. 

A fortnight flew by, during which Mrs. Moore en- 
tered upon a round of frivolity and pleasure, and had 
almost forgotten the visitor and her strange , story, 
when one morning a paragraph in the Colonist brought 
the incident back to her mind with startling vividness. 

The paragraph went on to relate that a Mrs. Wilmer, 
residing on North Park Street, had died under most 
painful and extraordinary circumstances. It was stated 
that she awoke in the middle of the night and found 
herself in immediate need of a doctor and nurse. She 
aroused her husband and he, dressing quickly, departed 
in search of both, whose services had been bespoken 
some weeks before. I cannot recall the doctor’s name, 


AND Other Tales of Western Life 3^1 

but Mrs. Charles Moss, a noted midwife, was the 
nurse. The doctor was not at home and the unfortu- 
nate man visited a saloon, hoping to find him there. 
In the saloon he encountered a number of lucky Cari- 
boo miners who were celebrating their good fortune. 
Wilmer, after much persuasion, was induced to take 
“just one drink.” He took another and another and 
was soon in a state of intoxication. He forgot his sick 
wife and the errand upon which he had gone forth. 
Two days passed and on the evening of the third day 
he staggered homeward. He found the door locked, 
as he had left it. No smoke ascended from the chim- 
ney and no sound was heard from within. He knocked. 
There was no response. He opened the door and en- 
tered. In the uncertain light he stumbled over a pros- 
trate form. He stooped, and with a cry of anguish 
and guilty despair he saw the body of his wife, clad in 
her night-garments — cold as ice and stilled in death. 
The wretched man rushed from the house and aroused 
the neighbors with loud cries of horror and remorse. 
Lights were brought and then was revealed a sight that 
would melt a heart of stone. The poor woman had 
fallen from her bed to the floor and she and her babe 
had died for want of those attentions her husband had 
been sent to procure. The dead woman’s hands were 
battered and bruised as if she had pounded in vain on 
the floor to attract the attention of neighbors. 

As I bring this mournful chapter to a close the day 
is spent and the sun has sunk to rest behind a glorious 
halo of golden mist. Twilight has deepened into dark- 
ness and night has draped its sable curtain over earth 
and sky. I lay down my pen and seem to see the fig- 
ures I have sketched glide by in ghostly procession. 
The miserable conscience-stricken husband who totters 
and shakes like one suddenly stricken with palsy; the 
kind neighbors who wring their hands and sob, “If we 


312 


The Mystic Spring. 


had but known !” the strong men who bear the remains 
of mother and child to the Cemetery, and the young 
curate who breaks down and weeps in the midst of 
the funeral service. Then I hear the dull clods fall on 
the coffin that holds the remains of the dead woman 
with her tiny babe close-pressed to her heart and hap- 
pily oblivious forevermore to worldly wretchedness, 
poverty, neglect and inhumanity. I hear the solemn 
words : “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust” 
echoing through the churchyard. Then the ghosts flit 
away into the dim Past, and are seen no more. I 
awake from my long reverie, and find myself seated 
in the gloom with only memory and this poor little 
story for my companions. 


THE END. 



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